After the Shots Rang Out: A Shot to the Heart
by dragonmactir
Summary: Recovering from a serious work-related injury leads Lassiter to take a good hard look at his life - and his relationship with both Shawn Spencer and his partner.  - partial SHASSIE with some one-sided LASSIET.   NOW COMPLETE
1. Chapter One: The Pineapple of Hostility

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Psych or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other Psych-Os like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **M+, not because every chapter _is, _but because there's no way in hell I'm going to worry about censorship. In some chapters there is definite need of the M+ rating.

**Spoilers: **Through season six episode nine, "Neil Simon's Lover's Retreat"

**WARNING: **Shassie, meaning full-on homosexual Shawn/Lassiter angst and occasional explicitness. I'll also warn you that I honestly don't "see" _any_ potential romantic entanglements between any of the characters on the show, not even (or perhaps even especially) Shawn/Juliet, and it takes reading the fanfic of other true "shippers" to make even the slightest potential love affair seem possible. The reason I'm writing a Shassie fic? Partly because there are some _awesome _ones out there, but mostly because I find myself fascinated pondering exactly how such a remarkable turn of events could ever transpire. This is one possible way I see.

**Chapter One: The Pineapple of Hostility**

"Carlton, no. Just because you can check yourself out of the hospital against medical advice doesn't mean you can come straight back to work. I'm going to have to have a full fitness evaluation _and_ psychological clearance before I'll even _consider_ putting you back on duty." The voice of Chief Karen Vick buzzed like an angry bee through the receiver in Detective Carlton Lassiter's ear.

"Come on, Karen, you don't have to make such a big deal out of this. It's not the first time I've been shot, you know."

"Carlton, you _died. _Twice!"

"You're acting like it was _permanent."_

"If you don't listen to the goddamn doctors and take it easy for awhile, it will be!"

"Karen - "

"_Detective Lassiter!"_ the Chief thundered in her best hard-ass voice, which even Lassiter had to confess was pretty damned good. "Medical evaluation and psychological clearance. Until then, you're sidelined. End of discussion. Good day." The line went dead.

He hung up the phone with a growl of irritation and flopped down onto his couch with only the slightest wince of pain. Sweet justice, everyone had pushed and pushed _O'Hara_ to get back to work after that deal with Yin, but it seemed they'd been champing at the bit to get rid of _him. _Now they were treating him as though he would crinkle up and burn the minute someone turned up the heat. Being shot was an expected if unwelcome job hazard, being dangled off the side of a clock tower had to have it beat as far as psychological trauma. He couldn't even remember much of it.

Except for the sound of the perp's gun, flat and authoritative and oddly cartoonish - _POP!POP!POP! _- like a Batman comic, and that probably meant it was a small-caliber weapon but at that distance it hardly made a difference. Except for the impact of three bullets, one after another, punching into his chest like blows from a jackhammer, the burn of hot lead, the sensation of drowning in his own blood. Except for the sound of O'Hara shrieking his name from some incredible distance, and further off the higher-pitched shrieks of a fake psychic and his sidekick.

He embraced the memory with a grim smile. He'd managed to get a shot off before he passed out, and despite being thrown off balance and more than half blind by pain, shock, and blood loss he'd hit his target, too. O'Hara's bullets were the ones that put the shooter down permanently, but Lassiter hadn't gone down easy and that was what mattered. O'Hara had once told him that he hated to lose, but that was only half right. What he _truly_ hated was to go down without a fight.

He kicked his coffee table in frustration, which only succeeded in rattling the bowl of pistachios so much that the butt of the Walther PPK buried in them poked out. The pile of mail he'd picked up that morning and delayed going through slid off onto the floor. He was getting a lot of mail these days, thanks to the half dozen or so kindergartens and elementary schools that had adopted him as a class project. It would almost be touching if not for the fact that several of these classes seemed to be under the impression that he was a drug-sniffing border collie named Lassie, and he didn't need to play Twenty Questions to guess who had misinformed them.

Chief Vick had already warned him that he needed to answer these innocent well-wishers, "to instill faith in the goodwill of the department in our city's youth." Mostly he thought it was a make-work project to keep him out of her hair. Buzz McNab was a pushover for kids - and pretty much everything else. He could probably trick the younger officer into doing the job for him. Not that McNab didn't already have work to do, unlike Lassiter.

Buzz's contribution to the tide of get-well-soons sat on Lassiter's small kitchen counter, a large bag of fresh-ground coffee beans. McNab had meant this small gift sincerely, and had even checked with Lassiter's doctor for the go-ahead before buying it, but to Lassiter the message was, _Get your own damn coffee for awhile, asshole._ But the coffee didn't bother him half as much as what sat beside it - six full pineapples, one for each day since he'd first checked himself out of the hospital AMA, each wrapped in a frilly pink bow with a card attached. The first one had read _"A pineapple a day keeps lead poisoning at bay. From your friendly neighborhood Psych-Os, Shawn and Gus." _The second read _"Pineapples are yum, mangos are too. I'm sad you got shot, and Gus is sad, too."_ It only went downhill from there. He found them every morning perched on his porch railing when he got up, and old Mrs. Klieger next door, squirrel-loving busy-body that she was, undoubtedly had plenty to say about his "secret admirer" at her daily bridge club meetings, particularly since she'd surely seen that the fruit was being left by a man on a motorcycle.

Thinking about Spencer made him want to shoot something, and that desire presented the solution to the prickly pineapple problem. He got up and rummaged through his coat closet, where he'd stashed the eco-friendly shopping bag his sister Lauren had insisted on getting him during her last pre-shooting visit. She and his older sister Janie, who flew in all the way from New Jersey, had been too busy donating their own O- blood for his surgeries to worry about ecology while he was in the hospital, and now they were both pissed off at him for checking himself out early and refused to answer his calls. He supposed he couldn't blame either of them for that.

He loaded the six pineapples in the bag, a tight fit, and set it on the floor by the front door. Then he went into his bedroom and gingerly shrugged into his shoulder holster. It hurt like a sonofabitch to do it, and for the first time he entertained a fleeting doubt that he really ought to be out of the hospital, but he pushed the traitorous thought aside and opened his gun vault. It only took a moment's cogitation to select the perfect weapon for mass pineapple destruction, the jewel of his collection, a titanium gold-finish .50AE Desert Eagle, a gun that had taken a painful chunk of his annual income to purchase about fifteen years ago as a "gift to self" for his rookie year on the force, a gun he had never once fired. The shiny bullets in the seven-shot magazine he loaded into the gun butt looked like ordnance. He chambered the first round and checked the safety, then sighted down the barrel at a particularly ugly print of a foxhunt his mother had given him. A wet-dream of a gun. No one did weapons manufacture like the Israeli military industry.

The weight of it alone was a comfort in his hand, though he wondered, briefly, if he was in any condition to handle the recoil. He slipped the weapon into his holster. It didn't exactly fit, or even remotely, but he managed to snap the safety strap at last.

He grabbed the bag of pineapples on his way out the door and jingled his keys after locking the place up. The midnight blue Crown Victoria he loved so much had been temporarily reissued to O'Hara, a thought that set his teeth on edge. It wasn't that he didn't trust O'Hara - he did, really, mostly - but the car's absence in his little spit of a driveway solidified his position as - how had the Chief put it? Oh, yeah. _Sidelined._ He'd have to drive his personal vehicle, and he hoped it would start.

Except for being pulled out of the garage into the driveway for the occasional maintenance check and oil change and a weekend wash about once a month if the weather was good, Lassiter's dark blue '66 Corvette Sting Ray hadn't been driven in at least four years. The Damn Car came to him when he was sixteen years old, the first and only car he'd ever owned, and he'd restored it himself in Chief Fenich's barn on afternoons and weekends when he had the chance. He'd loved the Damn Car in those days, and credited it with ninety percent of the dates he'd managed to get in college - including the freaky two and a half months he'd spent as the somewhat bewildered boyfriend of an aspiring actress with a ring in her nose. The epithet with which he thought of it now only attained proper-noun status in the days following his lengthy and bitter separation from his now-ex wife.

He slid into the driver's seat, shifted into neutral, and cranked the ignition, only a little surprised when it turned over immediately and the engine started its low throbbing purr. Despite the bitter associations the Damn Car brought to mind in the wake of his divorce, he'd taken good care of the vehicle. He released the parking brake, stepped on the clutch, shifted into reverse, and carefully backed out of the garage. He focused on the process of driving and forced his mind to steer clear of painful memories like the second date when he'd - totally accidentally - run out of gas and spent a very pleasant three hours making out with what he remembered as an improbably beautiful young Victoria Parker, with the gear shift digging painfully into his thigh and his _personal _gear shift digging even more painfully into the fly of the jeans he was wearing that night, or the three fitful nights he'd spent eight years later sleeping curled uncomfortably in this same driver's seat before he'd realized that Victoria was dead serious when she said he was unwelcome in her life. The Damn Car and its even more memory-tainted counterpart, the Damn Bike, had been a fairly heated point of contention between them while hammering out what he couldn't help but think of as "custody arrangements." Neither of them wanted either one. He still wasn't entirely certain why he hadn't listed them for sale - well, the Damn Bike at any rate. Despite the painful memories the Damn Car brought to mind, there was still the fact that it was a tangible connection to the dim interior of that stuffy barn where he first knew for certain that he wanted to be a policeman. The Damn Bike, on the other hand, brought only painful memories to mind and currently sat covered by a Damn Tarp in his garage, and he hadn't even looked at it since he'd moved in. He'd considered just leaving it behind when the Great Birthday Debacle forced him to move from his original post-separation rental property.

_Stop it,_ he told himself severely. _Stop dredging up these tired old memories._ He forced himself to recite the casualty statistics for every major battle of the civil war - for the Union _and _Confederacy - until he finally pulled into his marked parking space in the lot of the Santa Barbara Police Department.

O'Hara stood stock-still between the building and the blue Crown Vic in her space, mouth agape. He supposed he'd caught her on the way to some call or other, but it couldn't have been very important judging by how little inclination she evinced toward getting to work. "Carlton!" she cried out when she could speak. "Where on earth did you get a '66 Sting Ray and why have I not been offered a ride?"

She was a car nut, he'd forgotten that. He toyed briefly with the idea of trading her his keys straight up for the keys to the Crown Vic, but shelved the idea mostly because the department-issued vehicle didn't technically belong to either of them. Instead he simply nodded to her before trotting briskly past her to the building.

"Detective O'Hara," he greeted, his tone perhaps a trifle cooler than he'd intended.

"Hey, wait - " she called out as he climbed the stairs to the front door - "should you really be here right now? Wh…_why do you have a bag full of pineapples?"_

He ignored her. The stairs, few of them as there were, presented an unexpected obstacle and he was hard-pressed to keep his brisk, no-time-to-chat pace all the way to the top. Once inside he scurried to find an out-of-the-way corner of the main lobby where he could catch his breath unseen. It took quite awhile before the room stopped spinning and he could see straight.

And hear. And what he heard was the angry _click-click-click _of approaching heels.

"_Detective Lassiter!" _Chief Vick was clearly on the warpath, hands balled into fists at her sides. Even though he had a good six inches and at least fifty pounds on the chief of police, Lassiter quailed in the face of her righteous wrath. "I believe I told you in no uncertain terms that you do _not _belong here right now?"

He glanced at the front desk. Allen, the officer who usually worked Reception, looked away too quickly and busied herself with a pen and paper as though the Visitor's Log was a life-and-death assignment. _She snitched,_ he realized. _Called the Chief when I came in._ He made a mental note to make a quick run up to his desk and add her name to the Official Crap List in his top right-hand drawer. Not only was the woman a stool pigeon _and _a major psychic-groupie, she'd also tried to kill him. While he was still in the hospital she'd made a quick duty-visit with a group of other officers, and her get-well gift to him had been a wholesale-sized box of Andes mints. _Mints._

"You didn't say that I couldn't _be_ here, Karen," he said, mustering as much dignity as he could. "You said I couldn't come back to _work_. I'm just here for a little target practice. It's my hobby. It _relaxes_ me. I _do_ still have clearance to use the firing range, don't I?"

"_Target practice? _Lassiter, are you _insane? _I _talked_ to your doctor, he said that if you insist on being out of the hospital then you need to _take it easy _for at _least _the next three weeks, and that you weren't even to _consider_ anything but desk duty for the next month after that. This is not "taking it easy," Carlton. Your _lungs _collapsed, for Christ's sake, and that wasn't even the worst of it. They had to perform _three separate surgeries _just to save your life - if you're not careful you could very easily open up your sutures and bleed out again. Your sisters just about bled themselves dry donating blood for your transfusions, are you going to make them do it _again? _You're _supposed_ to be home in _bed_. You're _supposed_ to be using that _wheelchair_ they sent home with you if you absolutely _have_ to be up and about. Have you looked in a mirror lately? You look like an escapee from the county morgue. I'm tempted to call Woody Strode and have him come collect you."

"Karen, I was in that damned hospital bed for three fucking months," he snapped with real heat. Chief Vick blinked uncertainly, unused to hearing so much genuine profanity from her Head Detective. "If the goddamn doctors couldn't fix me up in three months another three _weeks_ isn't going to do anything."

"Look at me, Carlton," Chief Vick said, and her light brown eyes bored into him with burning seriousness. "Do you _want _to die? Is that it? Is this some sort of suicide move?"

He let out a gusty sigh of exasperation, though the irritation intended in the sound was probably lost in the rattling wheeze of it. "No, Karen, I do not _want_ to die. I am not _going_ to die. Not now or of this, at any rate. All I _want_ is for you and O'Hara and everybody else to stop treating me like a…a…_a_ _frigging porcelain figurine."_

The Chief closed her eyes tight shut against what she clearly saw as his utter stupidity, and he was slightly alarmed to see a single mascara-darkened tear escape from under her cosmetically-emphasized lashes. "Fine, Carlton. Fine. Go down to the range, fire your little…" her eyes fluttered open and she caught sight of the titanium gold butt of the special-edition in his holster "…your…_big_ gun. Is that - is that a Desert Eagle? Is that gun even _legal_ in Califor - you know what? I don't want to know. Just go do…whatever it is you came here to do. Have _fun_. And if you collapse we'll drag your stupid ass back to the hospital and I swear before _God_, Carlton, you're staying in this time if I have to put a fucking _armed officer _outside your door."

She turned on her heel and stormed back up the stairs. People were staring at him - officers, visitors, and suspects handcuffed to benches waiting for Receiving to process them. He stood as straight as possible and thrust his chin out. He favored Officer Allen with his best Stink-Eye as he passed the reception desk. _Nobody _gave the Stink-Eye like Carlton Lassiter, except perhaps his mother, and Officer Allen fairly quaked beneath it.

Nobody was lined up in the grey, sound-and-bulletproofed firing range, which was good. He had no problem working out his aggressions in front of an audience, but it was better to be alone and not have to answer annoying questions. He also didn't have to wait for the "Cease Fire" alarm to sound in order to set up his "special targets." He ignored the continued wheeze in his breath and the too-hard beat of his heart as he carefully positioned three of the six pineapples on the low bench at the far end of the target range. He returned behind the safety line, put on his eye and ear protection, and unholstered the high-caliber handgun. It felt a lot heavier than he remembered and he nearly dropped it. He closed his eyes and focused on evening out his ragged breathing. When a slower, steadier rhythm reestablished itself in his heart and lungs he opened his eyes and raised the gun. His brain entered "ultra slo-mo bullet time" about a fraction of a second before he squeezed the gold-plated trigger of the Desert Eagle for the first time.

He let out an involuntary whoop as the first pineapple disintegrated in a spray of juice. There was nothing left of it but its spiky green top, not even chunks as far as he could see, though in truth he couldn't see much thanks to the blinding muzzle flash. Even with the heavy-duty ear protection the sound of the blast left his head ringing and he could feel the intensity of the recoil all up both arms and into his chest. If his stance had been slightly off-balance, or if he'd been just a little bit weaker, he probably would've been blown onto his ass, or at least gotten a concussion from a solid blow to the head. He'd never experienced anything like it with a handgun before. He realized abruptly that he was starting up a hard-on and was rather grateful to be middle-aged - if he'd ever had the chance to fire a pistol like this when he first started on the force he probably would've had an orgasm.

He took out the next two pineapples in relatively quick succession, his aim true despite the fact that he couldn't stop giggling. But the giggle turned into a wracking cough and he staggered. He probably would've fallen if a strong arm hadn't wrapped around his waist as soon as he reeled.

A big hand closed over the Desert Eagle and wrenched it out of his failing grip. Buzz McNab clicked the safety on and tucked the gun away in the waistband of his uniform pants, then gently pushed his superior officer down onto the hard bench against the back wall of the room. "Here, sir," he said, and held a plastic Dixie cup to Lassiter's lips. "Drink this."

He gulped down two weak sips of the cool water before he realized that McNab had been _ready_ for this, had been _waiting_ for it, posted like a guard at the door by Vick, and anger reached up to throttle him. He knocked the cup out of McNab's hand. The young man's too-open face registered hurt feelings and Lassiter felt guilty, and then all the more irritable for _feeling _guilty.

He stood up - too quickly, but he managed to stay upright without assistance. He grabbed the handle of the green eco-friendly shopping bag and shoved it, and the three pineapples remaining inside it, into McNab's arms.

"Here, have some fucking pineapple," he said, and stormed out.


	2. Chapter Two: TROUBLE

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Psych or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other Psych-Os like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **M+

**Spoilers: **Through season six episode nine, "Neil Simon's Lover's Retreat"

**WARNING: **Shassie, meaning full-on homosexual Shawn/Lassiter angst and occasional explicitness.

**AN:** You will note, perhaps, that neither Shawn nor Lassiter remember whether it was peanuts or pistachios that were in the bowl during _Lassie Did A Bad Bad Thing_. This is because I, personally, have not had the pleasure of seeing _Lassie Did A Bad Bad Thing_, though I hope to have that pleasure this weekend on ION, and I want it to be pistachios so I can use the "Wonderful Pistachios" joke. That is why it is _Lassie_ who brings up that it might have been peanuts and not Shawn, because of course we all know that Shawn's marvelous eidetic memory is completely infallible, right? Right? Bueller?

**Chapter Two: T-R-O-U-B-L-E**

There was a pineapple sitting on the railing of his porch, glaring accusations of fruiticide at him as he pulled the Damn Car into the drive.

Well, he supposed it wasn't _actually_ glaring at him, pineapples didn't have eyes, and hadn't he heard somewhere or other that they were actually berries? Whatever. The real point was, there was a God. Damned. Pineapple. On his _porch._ Spencer had been here, at his house, in broad daylight, before God and Mrs. Klieger and the whole damned neighborhood. He just bet that nasty old bitch was doing the rounds right now, telling all the neighbors for blocks around about how "that heartless squirrel-killer" now had a scruffy-looking boy-toy. _And_ she'd probably look at Spencer's ragged jeans, wrinkled shirt, and Kangaroos and think he was _underage_, too.

He parked the Damn Car in the garage next to the Damn Tarp under which stood the Damn Bike, none of which had ever actually done anything to deserve his disapprobation, and slammed the Damn Door of the Damn Car behind him. He reeled across the lawn like a sailor, too incensed to stagger, but if any of his neighbors were watching (and they were, oh yes indeed, he could feel their disapproving eyes peering at him through the slats of their drawn blinds) they undoubtedly thought he was raging-drunk. He skipped all three of the white-painted steps leading onto his porch and grabbed the pineapple, intent on smashing it to smithereens on the concrete walk. But while a myriad of factors had gone into his decision to go into law enforcement, it was curiosity that drove him to become a detective. He _always _wanted to know the answers, _hated _unsolved riddles and mysteries, and hated not knowing how the magician did his tricks. His arm faltered and with a groan of resignation he read the card attached to this latest offering from his next-to-least-favorite person in the world, after Detective Goochberg.

"_Lassie: Pineapples are for eating, NOT for target practice. YOU NEED YOUR VITAMIN-PACKED PINEAPPLEICIOUSNESS! - Shawn. P.S. - Mumsy wants to talk to her little 'Booker' pretty badly, it seems. Didn't you even give your own mother your cell phone number? For shame! P.P.S - Sheriff Hank called, too."_

The message rattled him, he had to admit it. He checked his watch and saw that barely an hour had passed since he'd left the house. How the hell did Spencer have time, not only to find out about his pineapple killing spree, but to drop off this snarky little goad of his? And how in the name of Sweet Lady Liberty did he know who had or had not called his home phone in that time?

He unlocked the door with a shaking hand while his eyes kept scanning the overgrown hedges and any other place where someone could be hiding, spying on him. Not all the eyes he felt on the back of his neck belonged to his neighbors, he now felt sure. He slammed the door behind him, dropped the pineapple on the floor, and collapsed heavily onto the couch, which ill-considered action wrenched a low cry of pain from his lips this time. He glanced at the telephone on the discreet end table at his elbow, and the red digital display of the answering machine blinked the number three at him. With some trepidation, he reached out and tapped the button marked "play messages."

"_You have. THREE. New messages," _the creepy electronic-man voice of his answering machine informed him gravely. _"Playing. NEW messages. Message number ONE:"_

"Booker! It's your mother." The bull-horn voice of his mother reverberated through the room so clearly that he actually jumped a little. _Geez, Ma,_ he thought tiredly. _I couldn't have guessed. I mean, it's not like you're the only person on earth who calls me that, or anything._ "Pick up, please! Booker? I know you're there, Booker, the doctor said you're supposed to stay in bed. Answer the phone, Booker!" The answering machine recorded her long-suffering sigh just before she hung up.

"_Time. Nine twenty-two. A.M. Wednesday. Playing. NEW messages. Message number TWO:"_

"Booker! Booker, if you don't answer this phone I swear before our dear Lord Jesus _Christ _I will drive over there and break the door down. Booker? All right, Booker, you'd better call me back within the next hour or I mean it, Booker! I _will_ break in! Love you. Bye."

"_Time. Nine forty-four. A.M. Wednesday. Playing. NEW messages. Message number THREE:"_

"Howdy, Binky. S'Hank. Er…Annie and I just got back from our, erm…vacation…an' I heard tell you been having a…fair spot a' trouble," the low, slow drawl of Sheriff Hank was the perfect antidote to a double-dose of Mother, though it did mean that Spencer had been right on the money. "Sorry I wasn't there when it all went bad… Er…Tell ya what, I'll call back later. Some things can't be trusted to a machine, right? _Saludos, amigo."_

Lassiter checked his watch. He had all of fifteen minutes left in which to call off his mother, who would keep her promise to show up, he knew, even if he doubted - a little - her ability to actually break down the door. With his own long-suffering sigh he picked up the receiver and dialed her number, while offering up a prayer to the God he wasn't entirely certain he believed in anymore that Sheriff Hank wouldn't try to call while he was tied up in the same tired argument.

"_Booker?"_ his mother's voice was sharp and hard when she answered, after roughly half a ring.

"Yeah, Ma, it's me," Lassiter said, and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

"Why didn't you answer me?"

"I went out for a little while, Ma - nothing to worry about."

"Out? _Out?" _she demanded. He jerked the phone away from his ear in self-defense. "What in the name of our High Heavenly Father were you doing _Out?_ Are you trying to give me a heart attack, Booker? _Again?"_

He took a deep breath through his nose and let it out slowly. His mother _hadn't _had a heart attack, not once in her life, just some minor tachycardia when she got the call from Chief Vick that he'd been shot. Rapid heartbeat, nothing to get overly concerned about, as the doctors and paramedics and nurses continually reassured her. But she was absolutely _convinced_ she'd gone into full cardiac arrest and held her eldest son fully responsible for it.

"It was nothing, Ma," he said again, then lied desperately. "They needed me down at the station, to…sign some paperwork. For my medical insurance. In and out and over-with and no harm done. I'm _fine."_

"Well, I…suppose that's okay, then," she said, reluctantly mollified. Then her voice sharpened again as she asked, "You didn't take that Damn Bike, did you?"

The Damn Bike had _always_ been the Damn Bike to his mother, who'd suffered another guilt-inspiring not-heart attack when she discovered his then-girlfriend Victoria had given it to him in celebration of his promotion to Head Detective. "No, Ma," he said in weary resignation. "I took the Damn Car."

"Well all right then," she said, though she didn't sound like it was 'all right then' at all. "Though if they needed you so badly I don't know why they couldn't have sent an ambulance to pick you up and take you home again."

"The ambulance service isn't a taxi, Ma. And neither is the police service, so don't say they should have sent a patrolman. It was nice to get out for a bit. The…fresh air."

"_Did you have the top down?"_ she demanded shrilly.

"No, Ma. Look, is there something you wanted to talk to me about?" he asked, in the vain hope of wrapping up this conversation.

"_Don't get snippy with ME, young man!"_

"Ma, I'm not…getting snippy. I'm just…I'm a little tired, is all. I'm sorry if I came across…wrong."

"That's okay, baby," she said, suddenly all sunshine and rainbows and motherly solicitousness. "Are you eating well enough? Do you want me to come over? I could make you some nice soup." Myrna Lassiter's idea of "nice soup" was a bowl of Campbell's Chicken Noodle dumped directly into a bowl and microwaved for three minutes.

"Ah, thanks, Ma, but you don't have to do that. I think I'm just going to take a nap, you know?" _Please oh please oh please oh please just say goodbye and hang up._

"Oh, it's no trouble, baby. You can sleep while I'm cooking. You could just go to sleep _now_ and I'd wake you up when it was finished, _if_ I had a key." A not-too-subtle hint. He shuddered at the thought of giving her unlimited access to his life.

"Well, Ma…the truth is…I grabbed something on the way home from the station," he lied glibly, and did a quick mental calculation of how many "Hail Mary"s and "Our Father"s he'd need to say to assuage the guilt of lying to his mother - twice - in one telephone conversation. "I'm stuffed."

"Take out? Booker, that stuff's not good for you," she accused.

"It was a salad," he said quickly. Then he realized she'd be over in a flash if she thought that was _all_ he'd eaten. "And…a baked potato, and a bowl of chili." He gulped. "From Wendy's."

"Well…I suppose that's not so bad, then," she said. Then she dropped the bomb. "I should still come over, though, Booker, and stay with you. You need me to take care of you."

God, if anything could kill a man…

"Ma, we talked about this," he said patiently. _By my count, eighty-seven times in the last five days_. "You know you can't put Fritzy in a kennel, and you know she doesn't like long car rides. She also doesn't like strange surroundings, and she _really _doesn't like me."

"Well…I suppose that's true…" his mother said.

Fritzy, his mother's ancient and utterly repugnant pug-poodle mix. A yappy, snappy dog he loathed with every fiber of his being, and who loathed him with equal intensity in return. A dog he was indescribably grateful to for providing a convenient excuse for keeping his mother at the end of a telephone line and _not_ in his guest bedroom.

"You _know_ it's true, Mother," he said, gently but firmly. "You know she's been upset enough by your…" he couldn't quite bring himself to call it a heart attack, though she would correct him sharply if he called it what it really was "…cardiac episode, and she's getting on in years - she can't take a whole lot of excitement. Much as it pains me to admit it," _oh boy, warm up the lake of fire_, "she needs you more than I do right now."

"You're right, Booker," she said at last. Then, "Are you _sure _you'll be okay without me?"

"I'll be _fine_, Ma. I'm a big boy now, you know." _Six foot and forty-two years old with advanced degrees in Criminology and Criminal Justice and I've killed six men in the line of duty, but don't tell _her_ any of that._

"Oh, okay, baby. I'll let you go, then, I suppose, so you can get some sleep…" Lingering, trying to guilt him into continuing this endless, tortuous conversation.

"Thanks, Ma. I'll…" he swallowed hard. "I'll talk to you later."

"All right. Love you."

"Love you, too, Ma."

"Bye-bye."

"Bye, Ma."

She'd never hang up first, so he clicked the cut-off button and slammed the receiver back into the cradle, then sat with the heels of his hands pressed against his closed eyelids. His skin felt fever-hot and he realized that he hadn't been lying when he said he was tired, even if almost everything else he'd told her was untrue. He shrugged out of his holster and for the first time realized how light it was, how empty.

"Son of a _bitch!" _he shouted. McNab still had his Desert Eagle, a nearly $2000 showpiece that might not, actually, have been one hundred percent legal in the state of California, although he knew that he could prove he had purchased it before the ban if Vick pressed him on it - after all, it was properly registered. Still, now that it was out of his personal possession she could probably confiscate it as abandoned or stolen if she felt like revenge. And she probably did.

_At least I got to shoot it,_ he thought sadly. Small consolation over the probable loss of one of the few things he owned that survived the breakup of his marriage. His favorite _tie_ hadn't made it out alive - he'd found it caught in the zipper of the suitcase Victoria packed for him the night she kicked him out, mangled beyond salvation. He was fairly certain most of the mangling was deliberate - a clever deduction, considering it was pretty obvious she'd taken a pair of pinking shears to the silk.

_I hope Sheriff Hank calls back soon,_ he thought. _I could really use the pick-me-up._ He wished the old cowboy had left him a return phone number, but he knew that was probably asking too much of him. He'd tried to buy him a cell phone once and found out later that, after a frustrating bout with trying to find a ring tone that didn't startle or irritate the hell out of him, Sheriff Hank had used the phone as part of a trick-shooting demonstration. Not even the Finnish made a mobile phone that could survive six fast rounds from a Colt Navy revolver.

Lassiter sank as far into the couch cushions as his lanky frame would allow and closed his eyes. Though his chest hurt like the devil and it was hard to breathe without wheezing he somehow contrived to fall asleep.

"_Well, hello there, Trouble."_

_Words spoken in a tone of great interest by an improbably pretty young Victoria Parker, although he doesn't know her name yet. He has just turned away from the bar at the swankiest party he has ever attended in his young life, a benefit held in honor of the Santa Barbara police department by the Monarchs club, which has made a sizeable donation to the department's Widows and Orphans fund. It's an excellent chance to schmooze the DA and the mayor and the senior officers who in general were not terribly happy about his fast rise through the rank-and-file detectives - "Fenich's Pet," they call him, but not to his face because even now he's got a reputation for a nasty and vindictive temper. But all thoughts of law enforcement are driven from his mind when he nearly runs headlong into what has to be the most beautiful girl on the planet._

_She stares straight in his eyes, which is where every girl he ever meets seems to fixate, but unlike most of them she doesn't lose interest once she looks over the rest of him. In fact, her interest seems to increase._

"_Well, hello there, Trouble," she says. "Did you bring me a drink?"_

_He's only holding one, a single-malt Scotch. Without a moment's hesitation or thought he hands it over._

"_Why thank you, handsome." Handsome? Has this dark-haired Venus actually just called him handsome?_

"_Listen," she is saying, and he is listening, oh Sweet Jesus yes, he is _enthralled_ by every golden word that fell from her cherry-red lips, "this party is a bore, it's more about my father and his Very Important Friends basking in their gloriousness and congratulating themselves on their marvelous humanitarianism than it is about policemen or widows or orphans. How about you take me for a drive?"_

_A drive? For a moment his brain stutters, unable to comprehend what she's asking. A drive. Yes! A drive! He can take her for a drive. Yes, definitely! He has a car and everything! A car that has gotten him laid more than once!_

_And then they are there, together, in his car, and she is sitting right there beside him, and that slinky little black dress she's wearing is riding up her thighs just a little, but just enough, yes, just enough to set his thoughts racing and make it very hard to keep his eyes on the road. Then she reaches out and with just the tip of one finger traces the line of his sideburn and the wheel is jerking out of his suddenly slack grip and he has to fight the car to stay on the road._

_She's laughing at him, gently teasing. "Easy, big fella," she croons, and her finger traces the shell of his ear now, and Dear Sweet God Almighty who knew _that_ could feel so fucking good? And her hand drops onto his shoulder as she takes another sip of scotch and she shouldn't have that in his car, that's against the law, but he's not about to arrest her, no, she can do no wrong, she can do whatever she fucking well _wants_ to as long as she wants to do it with him, and she's rubbing his shoulder, and his neck, and his chest, and oh dear God in Heaven her hand is falling into his lap and she's unzipping him, she's unzipping the fly of his one good pair of pants and she's reaching in and she's touching him right there in the car and there's no way in hell he can drive like this so he pulls over onto the shoulder and she pulls over closer to him and snuggles into _his_ shoulder as her soft fingers keep touching him, and she's freaking him out more than that actress with the nose ring used to, and he never so much as hoped for more than maybe a kiss but oh God this is way beyond first base, he's rounding third and heading for home, and she doesn't seem to mind the gear shift at all but damn he wishes this car had a back seat and she's saying "You should have a motorcycle, we could take long drives all up and down the coast and I'd wrap my legs around your waist" and oh Mercy, yes, a motorcycle sounds like the best damned idea in the world right now and now she's screaming at him, she's screaming at him with her pretty face all twisted up like a harpy's and he just doesn't understand at all, how did it get from so good to so bad so fast?_

"_I hate you," she's screaming. "I hate you I hate you I never want to see you again get out get out get out GET OUT!" and now she's hitting him, pounding her fists against his chest and it doesn't hurt much, she's small and it doesn't hurt much, but it _does _hurt, it hurts like _hell,_ not so much on the surface but down deep where it counts and she pushes him back off the front porch of the home they've shared for eight years and starts throwing things at him, his shoes, his suitcase, his books on military history, and he just stands there, dumbfounded, as the shattered pieces of his life and marriage rain down on him, and doesn't she see that he just doesn't fucking _get it?

"_I don't get it!" _he shouted out loud, before he could realize that he was awake.

"That's right, Lassie, and you probably never will," another voice, a familiar voice, said. Shawn Spencer, pseudo-psychic extraordinaire, absolutely the last damn person on the planet he wanted to see upon waking with the possible exception of his divorce attorney or his mother (and the definite exception of Detective Goochberg), crouched on the balls of his feet right in the middle of Lassiter's coffee table. "Shame about the dream, though, really looked like it had potential there for awhile. Figures it would end up a nightmare. You're just that kind of guy."

There were a million questions circling Lassiter's mind, he settled for the most imperative. "What the hell are you doing in my house?"

"Helping you out."

"Helping me out? Breaking and entering, you mean."

Shawn scoffed. "Please. You were so freaked out by my innocent little gift of a hospitable pineapple that you totally forgot to lock your door, let alone arm your security system. That's practically an invitation, you know, and you'd better be happy that _I_ chose to accept it rather than leave you at the mercy of every crazed drug addict in your neighborhood."

Lassiter gaped like a landed trout for a moment before he growled out, "My neighborhood is full of Social Security pensioners."

"So I noticed, although for your edification old Mr. Cooper down the block has a strange dependency on hemorrhoid _crème _and milk of magnesia, and I'll leave the terrifying possibilities of _that_ to your imagination. I closed up your garage, too, 'cause someone would _definitely_ try to hotwire that sweet ride of yours, possibly me. _You're welcome_, by the way."

"Thank you," Lassiter said reluctantly. "Now get the hell out of my house."

Shawn shook his head sadly. "Lassie, Lassie, Lassie, is that any way to treat a guest? Where are your manners? What would the sweet and lovely 'Ma' Lassiter with the highway construction voice have to say about your ungracious behavior? I think her response might be to tell you not to get _snippy_, young man."

"How do you know what she said to me?" Lassiter asked. "Do you have a tap on my goddamned phone?"

"Lassie, please. Psychic," Shawn said, with the cocked eyebrow and ridiculous hand to the head that made Lassiter want to throttle him, among many _other_ things that made him want to throttle him. Actually, Shawn had listened in on the conversation through the extension in Lassiter's bedroom, and he'd known about the three previous messages because he'd been in the house to hear the calls as they came in, but as long as Lassiter didn't remember that he'd left the bedroom window open when he got up that morning, Shawn didn't feel the need to remind him.

Lassiter closed his eyes against the desire to commit homicide, though he was fairly certain it was justifiable. "Just…God damn. Get out of my house, please? I didn't invite you in, and I damned sure don't need you for anything."

"Not even to return…this?" Shawn waggled a beautiful titanium gold-finish gun in front of Lassiter's eyes.

"_Where did you get that?" _Lassiter cried in anguish, and snatched it out of the fake psychic's hand. The magazine was missing and a quick inspection of the chamber proved the gun unloaded, though he didn't stop handling it as though it might fire - rule number one of gun safety.

"Here," Shawn said, and tossed the missing clip into his lap. "Dad taught me how to handle guns so I'm not exactly afraid of them, but _day-um_, holding _that thing _and knowing there were bullets in it almost made me crap myself. You know what they call a piece like that, Lassie? _Overkill."_

"It's…not really meant for anything but show," Lassiter admitted. "Well, I mean…it's not a replica or something, it fires - _Jiminy Crickets _does it ever - but it's like…a gun collector's investment piece. If I wanted a .50AE for hunting or something like that I'd have bought the standard finish model. Where did you get it?" he asked again.

"The spirits told me that you'd accidentally left it at the station after your unprovoked assault on those poor, innocent pineapples that Gus and I gave you out of the goodness and love of our hearts, and they said you'd be sad if you didn't get it back, so I ran over there while you were asleep and convinced The Buzz to remand it to my custody. Took a bit of charm, too, which is odd because McNab is usually putty in my hands, but I think he was afraid of the repercussions if you found out I'd had my grubby little fingers all over your pretty pretty piece, there. It was nice of you to give him the leftover pineapples, though you really should have saved them for yourself. Pineapple is the perfect cure for gunshot wounds."

"Pineapple doesn't 'cure' gunshot wounds," Lassiter protested.

"Maybe not, but it certainly makes the time waiting for them to heal go much more sweetly. You're bleeding through your shirt, by the way."

Lassiter jerked and stared down at his chest, where two small dark stains had indeed appeared on his blue shirt. He fumbled with the buttons but Shawn slapped his hands away.

"Your self-ministration is what brought this on in the first place," he said calmly, "and you may very well have ruined this shirt, which is a shame because it matches your eyes so nicely. You will do nothing further until I've had a chance to check this out." He took the Desert Eagle and its magazine and laid them gently on the surface of the coffee table by his feet, then unbuttoned Lassiter's shirt and took a critical look at his chest. Lassiter felt his cheeks burn with humiliation, not just because Shawn Spencer, of all people, was pulling the Florence Nightingale bit on him. Medical science had turned three small, relatively neat bullet holes into five grisly Frankensteinian lines of black stitches and his chest…was _shaved_. The thick "sternum bush" that Spencer had once told him to flaunt if he wanted to work the dating scene was only barely beginning to grow back, a five o'clock shadow from hell.

Shawn clucked his tongue sympathetically. "I know it'll grow back, but _man_, can't we sue those damn doctors for malpractice or something? Environmental terrorism, maybe? I mean, the Lassiter National Forest has been _clear cut."_

Lassiter stayed quiet and Shawn turned his attention to the sutures. "Well, I think it's just a little seepage," he said at last, "nothing too scary. You got lucky, Iron Man - _this_ time."

He bounced off of the coffee table and onto the floor, where he bounced a few more times for good measure, as always bubbling over with an absolutely obscene amount of energy for a man in his thirties. "Shirt. Off," he said, snapped his fingers and held out his hand for it. Bemused, uncertain exactly how he'd ended up taking orders from Shawn Spencer in his own house, Lassiter obeyed the command and handed over the stained shirt, though he felt more than faintly ridiculous sitting topless even if it was his own damned house. Spencer whipped the Psych-phone out of his back pocket and punched a couple of buttons. "Gus! Dude, 'Sup? Yeah, I'm at Lassie's place, we're just chillin'. Oh, nothing, nothing. Just - know any surefire tricks for getting bloodstains out of a cotton-poly blend? What? No, not mine. Lassie's. Er…halfway to dry, I'd say. Okay, thanks bro. Smell ya later."

He hung up and went into the little kitchenette and began rummaging through Lassiter's cabinets on a top secret stain-fighting mission no one had assigned him. "You know, this place looks pretty much exactly the same as the last time I was here, which is really creepy given the circumstances of that visit. The LCD TV on the wall is new, so that's an encouraging sign, I guess, but otherwise you are sitting in a room that looks exactly like it did when you shot that asshole Drimmer, do you ever stop to think about that? A man bled out on _that_ floor next to _that_ hideously uncomfortable couch and you shot him with _that_ gun so gauchely peeking out of _that_ bowl of pistachios. I bet those are even the same pistachios, and dude, that is seriously messed up. I mean, who keeps a bowl of moldy pistachios sitting on their coffee table for years?"

"They're not…they're not the _same_ pistachios, Spencer," Lassiter said, though he wasn't certain why he bothered to argue the point. "I think the bowl was full of _peanuts _at the time, anyway. And I had to have the carpet replaced and everything."

"Yeah, but this is my point, you replaced it with the _exact same color carpet_. I mean, that was your big chance to bring some color out in this place, maybe introduce a few rich earth tones, warm it up in here a little bit, maybe add a primary color or two here and there for spice, but no, right back to the gunmetal grays and muted beiges. Of course, you are a man who apparently takes his interior decorating tips from back episodes of _America's Most Wanted_, so…there you go," Spencer said, with a helpless gesture at the Claridge board on which Lassiter diagrammed suspects and evidence. "I mean, seriously, Lassie - can't you at least buy one colored throw pillow? Dude - you don't even have _any_ throw pillows! Who doesn't own a throw pillow?"

"What the hell would I need with a throw pillow?" Lassiter demanded.

"_Duh! _To _throw_ at people! People like me, your bestest-best buddy in the whole entire world!"

"Spencer, when I start throwing things at you it won't be anything soft and harmless. And you are _not _my…whatever you said."

"'Fess up, Lassie - who else would you hang the 'best friend' hat on? Nick Conforth? He hates your guts, even though you shared that little…man-hug…with each other. And you, you're like my…next-to-bestest-best buddy in the whole world. If, like, I'm really hard-up for company. You're certainly my favoritest _cop _on planet Earth, though there's a nine-armed Highway Patrolman on Ceti Alpha Six who edged you out for favoritest cop in the universe. No hard feelings, 'kay? It was a close race, but he gives awesome hugs."

"I thought O'Hara was your favorite cop in the world," Lassiter said, again not quite certain why he bothered.

"Jules is awesome, don't get me wrong, but let's face it, she's not _you_. She's perkier than you, and she's prettier than you, and she's a hell of a lot nicer than you, but she doesn't have half the entertainment value. And after watching you sleep, so cute with your roll-y eyes and fluttery lashes and your muttering, the adorability factor so high that even intensive Bunny Love might never put me in the same zone again, I think you might just have edged her out of the pretty contest, too. Would've been a landslide if not for the sheep-shearing, though to be fair I didn't know about it until you took your shirt off."

Lassiter was speechless for a long minute, then growled out, "I don't think I like the idea of you watching me sleep, Spencer."

"Somebody needs to."

"_Spencer…"_

"What? It's the truth. You were thrashing around so much by the end I was afraid you'd hurt yourself. I figured I might be able to at least keep you from falling off the couch, but frankly I got a little spooked and couldn't make myself get any closer. And who could blame me, after all the times you've slammed me into car doors or against walls or tried to tear my face off with your grabby-grabby fingers? It's no way to treat your bestest-best buddy in all the world, I'm telling you."

"Spencer…did I not ask you some time ago to kindly _leave?" _

Spencer came back into the living room and flopped down onto the sofa next to Lassiter, digging both knees into the cushion hard. "Hey, stop messing up my house!" Lassiter demanded indignantly.

"Messing up your house?" Shawn mocked. "Pineapple on the floor, mail strewn about willy-nilly-Milli-Vanilli, pistachios madly askew - _you_ made the mess, Lassie, not me. But, since you're a friend, and you're hurting, I'll let this one slide. I'll even clean up after you - no heavy lifting for you for awhile, after all. Here - have a drink." He pushed a mug of what looked like steaming dishwater into Lassiter's hand. Lassiter looked at the concoction and raised a dubious brow.

"You made tea?"

"Yup-yup. Drink, it's good for you. Lots of…er…anti-ox repellants."

"I think you mean _anti-oxidants."_

"I've heard it both ways," Spencer said dismissively. "And honestly, what's the more frightening? Rampaging oxen or a little rust? I'll take the ox repellant, think yew veddy muck."

"Spencer…I don't _have_ tea."

"Of course you don't, Lassie - you're _you_. I brought the tea with me. A present from Gus. Coffee's not a good idea right now, honestly, what was that doctor thinking, giving Buzz the okay to give you anything so unhealthy? _Drink!"_

Obediently, Lassiter took a hesitant sip and nearly gagged. The stuff _tasted_ like dishwater. Spencer, predictably, had gone off on an entirely different tangent. The boy - _man_, but only technically - had the attention span of a tsetse fly.

"I'm sorry, but this just has to be said - what kind of man keeps a gun in a bowl of freakin' pistachios, anyway? _And_ in the bread box, _and_ in a plastic baggie in the toilet tank. I mean, really, Lassie, the _toilet tank? _What possible good does that do you? I mean, are you expecting to be assaulted while taking a shit?" He bounced off the couch and pulled the Walther out of the bowl. He struck a Charlie's Angels pose. "Wonderful Pistachios. Detective Carlton Lassiter…does it with ballistics."

"Put that back," Lassiter groused. Amazingly, Spencer did. He also picked up the mail scattered over the floor and set the pineapple up on the coffee table by the Desert Eagle for good measure.

"There. _Told_ you I'd clean up for you. You may thank me later with extravagant gifts of Swiss chocolates and Cartier jewelry," Spencer said in satisfaction. He then flopped back onto the couch and peered earnestly at Lassiter's face. "Now, let's talk, you and I. I thought you were over that whole ex-wife angsty thing. And after you gave in and signed the papers with such good grace, too. Well, nearly good grace. I'm not sure I'd have confessed to cloning her cell phone or wanting to set fire to the divorce papers and putting them back in her purse, but that's just me."

Lassiter squeezed his eyes shut. He didn't bother asking how Spencer knew he'd been thinking about Victoria - he'd probably said her name out loud while he was dreaming. "I am. Over her, that is. But how the hell do you know so much about what passed between us when we met to sign the divorce papers?"

Shawn smiled enigmatically and said nothing. In truth he'd met the former Mrs. Carlton Lassiter a year ago and charmed the whole story - and quite a few others - out of her. Stories about the _good_ times, which were all he was interested in, and all she was interested in talking about now that it was all said and done, it seemed. It saddened him - and, to some extent, her - that the good times hadn't been enough to offset the long work hours, the missed anniversaries, the broken plans, and the forgotten calls home. Of course, he was also pretty certain that Victoria Parker-Lassiter had been cheating on her ex-husband, but he didn't know if that came before or after his work became an issue.

"Right. Never mind. But however you get your information, Spencer, it's none of your business," Lassiter said.

Spencer reached out and grabbed Lassiter's knee in a way Lassiter suspected he'd seen Oprah Winfrey or Doctor Phil do. Lassiter glared at the offending appendage until Spencer removed it. "Lassie, I'm your friend. Friends care about friends. I came here because I was worried about your health and how you were taking enforced inactivity - very much _not well_, might I stress, just as I feared - but now I'm just as concerned about _this. _If you're really over it all, what got you dredging it all back up again?" His voice dropped down to a whisper. "Is it because you…_died?"_

Lassiter glared at him. "I did _not_ die, Spencer. My heart and lungs ceased, on two occasions, to function unassisted. That is _not_ death, not when the doctors manage to resuscitate you."

"What did it feel like?" Spencer asked, still in that near-breathless whisper that sounded so much like mockery, but his caramel-colored eyes were serious, intent.

Lassiter shrugged. "How the hell should I know? I was out cold for most of it." Except he had very clear if slightly broken memories of people in white masks hovering over him, all of them sounding oddly panicked for some reason he couldn't, at the time, begin to fathom, and of trying to tell them to be calm, that he was a police officer, that he would take care of everything and there was nothing to be afraid of, but of being unable to speak thanks to the plastic tubes they shoved down his throat.

"Did you see a white light?"

Lassiter thought about it. "I seem to remember seeing a halogen lamp when they wheeled me into the operating room, so yes, I guess I did."

"No, I mean…did you see…_the_ white light. The White Light."

Lassiter sighed. "No, Spencer, I didn't see the White Light, and I didn't see any long-dead relatives telling me it wasn't my time. Anyone who _has_ is remembering the hallucinatory effects of oxygen deprivation of the brain. Now, if your morbid curiosity regarding my Near Death Experience, or rather lack thereof, is sated, I would thank you very much to leave."

Spencer shook his head. "Not a chance, Lass. _Someone_ has to take care of you, and it looks like it's down to me or Mama Lassie. Now, if you really want me to go, I can just give her a call right now and she'll be down here lickety-split to force-feed you soup until you throw up spaghetti-Os and regale you with tales of Dear Fritzy's incontinence and just what part of H-E-Double-Hockey-Sticks is reserved for forty-year old male divorcees who don't answer the phone on time, give their poor dear mothers heart attacks, and lie through their teeth about what they've been doing and whether they've eaten."

"Don't you dare."

"You choose me, then? Lassie, I'm touched. I knew you cared, you ol' softy." He pulled out the Psych-phone again and punched a couple of buttons. "Hello, Chief? Shawn Spencer. Yeah, I wanted to let you know that Psych won't be available to take any cases for the next few weeks. Yes, Gus needs to catch up on his 'other job' and I'm taking on a sticky situation here at Lassie's house that I'm calling 'The Case of the Reflectory Detective.' What's that? Oh, _'Refractory?' _Yeah, that does sound more like Lassiefras. Thanks, Chief. Huh? Yeah, he's right here." He cupped a hand over the mouthpiece and said to Lassiter, "She wants to talk to you."

He handed over the little green cell phone. Lassiter took it with a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach. "Lassiter here."

"Carlton. Hello." Chief Vick's voice was light, cheerful. Mocking. "How are you after your rather strenuous morning? Feeling any pain?"

"Pain? Well, a small one in my chest and an _enormous_ one in my ass," he said, with an angry glare at the psychic.

"What? _Ass? _Lassie, did that bastard shoot you in the ass, too? Drop your pants, let's see," Spencer said, and bounced up and down on the protesting couch springs like an overgrown toddler. Chief Vick's poorly stifled giggle over the phone erased any faint hope that she hadn't heard.

"Mr. Spencer returned your weapon to you, I hope?" Vick went on, as though she hadn't. "I had Records run the serial number and discovered that the gun was purchased and registered before the ban went into effect - though of course I never thought for a moment you would ever obtain a weapon _illegally - " _her tone made it clear that she had, in fact, thought that for at _least_ a moment - "so as long as it is in your possession now and remains so I'll let the fact that you lost track of it slide. Technically McNab should never have handed it over to Mr. Spencer but I'll look the other way on that, too - I know how persuasive he can be, and McNab isn't the most charm-resistant officer on the force."

That was an understatement. A smile and a friendly hello would make McNab crumble under most circumstances, not that Lassiter knew that from _personal_ experience.

"Yes, Karen - Spencer returned the gun to me," Lassiter said. "I won't lose track of it again."

"Glad to hear it. I'd also thank you not to bring it back to the station - the shots were audible all the way upstairs, and there are now three very large, very deep holes in the wall at the end of Lane Two. I'm only relieved that they didn't go all the way through the building and into the parking lot. But all talk of this morning aside, Carlton, I think it's a wonderful gesture that Mr. Spencer would volunteer his time to your care during your recovery. I must say I'm relieved to hear that you're allowing it," she said.

"Woah, Chief - I never said anything about letting Spencer take care of me."

"Let me rephrase that, Detective," the Chief said, with a trace of severity in her tone. "I must say I'm relieved that _you're going to _allow it. _If_ you want to return to active duty at some point, that is."

"Karen, I - "

"Put me on speaker, Carlton."

He jerked the phone away from his ear and looked at it helplessly, completely unfamiliar with the model. Shawn snuck a hand in and hit a button Lassiter couldn't see. The Chief's voice rang out in the room, slightly tinny but clear.

"Mr. Spencer, can you hear me?"

"Yes, Chief - loud and clear."

"Good. I want it to go on record, and I want Carlton to hear. I am hiring you - _me, personally _- to keep my head detective from killing himself for the next three weeks, after which point we can consider putting him back to work. Carlton, you are to listen to what Mr. Spencer says and you are to give him your _full_ cooperation. Mr. Spencer?"

"Yes, Ma'am."

"If he gives you any trouble, _call me_. Goodbye, gentlemen." The Chief sealed her edict with the finality and immutability of a dial tone.

Trouble. Lassiter closed his eyes and tried not to think about just how _much_ trouble he was in for. Spencer didn't make him wait long to find out. The first thing he did as Lassiter's semi-official nursemaid was to pull the borrowed wheelchair out of the hall closet and force Lassiter into it for the ten-foot ride to his bedroom. "Are you allowed to keep this thing?" he asked. "I mean, after you don't need it anymore. 'Cause if we could get another it would be _awesome _for racing."

"No, Spencer, it has to go back to the medical supply store," Lassiter said, too tired to put more than the faintest tinge of irritation in his words. "But I'm certain if you want to you can find a couple of used chairs at a secondhand store or on eBay."

Spencer set the right-hand brake and got a shoulder under Lassiter's arm. Lassiter wasn't at all happy with the arrangement but he allowed the so-called psychic to help him up and into bed. The change in position caused his head to swim dizzyingly, and he dug his fingers into the sheets as the world spun around him.

"Oo, are these Egyptian cotton? And one of those fancy-pants adjustable-firmness mattresses, too! _Comfy!" _Spencer said. "I still don't 'get' this boycott on real color you're waging, but at least the Spartanism doesn't extend to the sleeping arrangements." He flopped out on the bed next to Lassiter. "So tell me, Carlton, what's _your_ Sleep Number?"

"Get out of my bed, Spencer," Lassiter said automatically, although he was already more than half asleep.

"Sorry, can't. It's my naptime, and you don't want to see how cranky I get when I miss my naptime."

"Guest room right across the hall."

"And I bet the mattress is a board with nails hammered through," Spencer said. "Besides, if you wake up before I do you'll probably try to escape. I don't trust you, Lassie-face. And Chief Vick is counting on me."

"Escape? It's _my house."_

"Doesn't mean you won't pack up and move again."

Lassiter closed his eyes and started to drift. "It's not a board with nails hammered through," he slurred, though he wasn't entirely sure he said it aloud or only in his head.

"It's not?" Spencer asked.

A slow half-smile split the weary detective's lips. "No. I'd never waste money on nails."

Spencer propped himself up on one elbow and looked at Lassiter with incredulity writ plain on his face. "Lassie - did you actually just make a self-deprecating _joke?"_

There was no answer forthcoming - Lassiter was asleep. Shawn watched him for a moment, worried. If Carlton Lassiter was laughing at himself, the Zombie Apocalypse couldn't be far behind.


	3. Chapter Three: Corvette Summer

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Psych or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other Psych-Os like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **M+

**Spoilers: **Through season six episode nine, "Neil Simon's Lover's Retreat"

**WARNING: **Shassie, meaning full-on homosexual Shawn/Lassiter angst and occasional explicitness. There's a very mild amount of Shassie smut in this. Very mild. Almost microscopically mild.

**Chapter Three: Corvette Summer, Sans Luke Skywalker**

Lassiter woke up to two very strange sensations. The first was the itchy prickle of gauze pads and medical adhesive on his chest, and the second was the scratchy five o'clock shadow on the chin digging into his shoulder. Spencer, sound asleep and drooling. For only the second time in his life, Lassiter made this sound:

"_Eeeewwwwwwugh!"_

He reached up and, with his hand flat on Spencer's slack-jawed face, pushed the man away. Unnerved and more than a little revolted, he climbed out of bed and stumbled down the hall to the bathroom. He gave the wheelchair an irritated shove in passing.

It wasn't easy to stand upright long enough to relieve his aching bladder, a clear indication that he had, in fact, pushed himself far too hard that morning. Another good indication was the quality of light outside - it hadn't been much later than noon when Spencer finally manhandled him into bed, and it had to be past eight in the evening by what he could see through the tiny bathroom window. He braced himself against the cool tile wall with one hand and stood there with his head hanging and a greasy sweat beading on his forehead.

"_Lassie?"_

Spencer, who sounded panicky. Lassiter wasn't about to answer, but the sound of pounding feet in the hallway headed straight for the bathroom door. He shook himself off and managed to zip up before the fake psychic burst in, wild-eyed and wilder-haired.

"Damn it, Lassie, you scared the hell out of me. Cripes, you look like you're going to pass out. See? _This_ is why you need a keeper."

Spencer pushed him to a seat on the edge of the tub and ran cold water from the sink over a washcloth. Lassiter watched him, interested to see what looked like one of the few genuine emotions he'd ever seen the man display - anger, in this instance. "Here, cool off before you pass out," Spencer said, and handed him the wet towel. Lassiter wiped his face and neck, and he did feel marginally better afterward. "Look, I know being stuck laying around recuperating after an injury sucks - I _know_ that. But you know what? If I hadn't been here you could've passed out and hit your head and _died_ and no one would have ever known. You've got to _work _with me, Carly-Bear, I'm here to help."

"I don't suppose there's any chance you'd dispense with the irritating nicknames, at least while I'm your 'patient?'" Lassiter asked.

"Unlikely in the extreme - I'm genetically conditioned against calling anyone by their real name, except for my father. But I suppose I could manage to toss the occasional 'Carlton' into the mix if it'll make you feel better."

"I suppose I should take what I can get."

"You should. Now, wait here while I grab you a shirt and the wheelchair - if you feel like it you can sit up for awhile and I'll get you something to eat. _Sit. Stay. _Good boy."

This had to qualify as an all-time personal low. Lassiter sat obediently on the hard, narrow porcelain ledge with his elbows dug into his knees and his head in his hands. Spencer was back in an instant with the wheelchair but without a shirt.

"Thought better of it. Wheelchair first, then I'll get you a shirt. I started thinking you could lose your balance and fall if I wasn't back quick. Come on, up you go."

"Let me wash my hands," Lassiter said.

"Sink is low enough, you can do that from the chair. Come on."

Spencer helped him into the chair and maneuvered him to the sink. It wasn't exactly easy to wash properly from the low-slung wheelchair, but he managed well enough. Shawn wheeled him into the living room and left him there while he went for a shirt. He returned in a few moments with a burgundy button-down. "Dude, you've got like, zero casual wear aside from one golfing polo and that stripey shirt you wear when you go fishing with Henry, and it still smells like a dead fish. I almost brought you that tantalizingly un-Lassiter-like Meat Loaf t-shirt with the ripped-off sleeves but I think its at least three sizes too small."

Lassiter shrugged into the shirt, and glared at Spencer at the same time. "You did a remarkably thorough catalogue of my wardrobe, Spencer, since that shirt is at the bottom of my sock drawer and you had no reason to dig through that."

Spencer smiled, unabashed. "You also keep a framed 8x10 of your mother and that ugly little puggle Fritzy in there, which is suggestive of a more complicated relationship than I'd imagined. If Mama was as indelibly printed on your Official Crap List as you make out you'd put her picture on the wall and forget all about her instead of brooding over it in secret."

"I don't - I don't _brood_ over my mother. And she may drive me up the wall but she's still my mother."

Spencer shrugged. "So if Mama is a forbidden subject, tell me about the Bat Out of Hell. You're a…big Meat Loaf fan?"

It was Lassiter's turn to shrug. "I _like_ Meat Loaf. Does anyone not? But I wouldn't say I was a big fan, no."

"There's probably a lot of people who don't like Meat Loaf. Vegetarians, for instance. But it still surprises me a little bit that _you_ do. I had you pegged as more of a Rat Pack groupie. Now I'm getting a strong psychic vibration that your taste in music is considerably more eclectic than I'd ever imagined."

"Psychic vibration? Are you sure you didn't just dig through my music library?"

Spencer shrugged again, and again smiled a smile of the unrepentant snoop. "Maybe. What can I say, Lass? You're…_psychically shielded_. I mean, it's easy enough to pick through that noggin of yours for professional matters, but personal matters are closed off. And sometimes I think you're deliberately feeding me misleading information. And you're pretty damn good at turning me away from my main question into inconsequential tangents when you don't want to answer."

Lassiter rolled his eyes. _"Please_, Spencer, you side-track yourself."

"Agree to disagree. But back to the shirt - it has the definite vibe of a garment unworn since the days before the sternum bush ever grew in, so why keep it if you're not a big Meat Loaf fan? Admit it - you were wearing it when some great and wondrous thing happened to you, like the first time you ever hit the nine-ring."

Lassiter scoffed. "Please. I was _ten_ when I shot my first bullseye."

"First time you made out with a girl?"

"No."

"With a boy?"

"_No!"_

"So you'd made out with a boy before?"

"_No_, I - I've never made out with a boy."

"So what, then? Come on, Lassie - we've got three weeks to fill and it's going to go very, _very_ slowly if we can't tell stories and get to know each other a little better. I mean, how many years have we worked together and I didn't even know you were allergic to mint until Jules told me about the box of cool refreshing chocolate-minty Andes deliciousness Officer Allen bought for you. You would think maybe that was information Jules might have shared with the whole department some time beforehand. I don't know how many times I was on the verge of offering you an Altoids or bringing in some mint mocha latte to share, but some faint psychic tickle always stopped me."

Lassiter closed his eyes and resigned himself to three weeks of ceaseless interrogation. "I keep the shirt…because I was wearing it the day I almost got arrested for drug possession, and being under the influence of illicit substances," he admitted.

Apparently Spencer hadn't had even the faintest "psychic tickle" about this, because when Lassiter opened his eyes he saw the man sitting there on his couch with his eyes as round as tea saucers and his jaw hanging somewhere around his knees. It was almost worth the humiliation of the admission.

"_You? Arrested? For drugs? _When? How? Why?"

Lassiter gave a gusty sigh. "I was sixteen, I was stupid, and I got very, very lucky."

Spencer sat there expectantly, but that was all Lassiter was going to say on his own hook. "Come on, man, you can't leave me hanging with just _that," _Shawn said. "If you don't give me all the details I'm just going to have to fill in the missing information with my boundless and perverted imagination, and then I'll have to tell my version of the story to everyone I know - and I know a _lot _of people."

He did, and doubtless he would. "It's…not always easy to cope with everything that's expected of you," he said.

Spencer nodded thoughtfully. "Yeah, I hear that. Go on."

"Dad was never around much, and after Lulu was born, well…he dropped out of the picture all together. I can't honestly say there was much difference between the times he was there and the times he wasn't, but maybe it was Lauren that changed the way I looked at my role as the 'Big Brother,' since she's so much younger than Janie and Lyle and I. Whatever the reason, I guess I kind of stopped trying to be the brother and started trying to be the father, and that's a lot to ask of a thirteen year-old. And of course there was the pressure to do well in school, go out for a dozen extra-curricular activities, participate in church functions, work a part-time job, get scholarships, be the Good Son and secure a solid future. When I was younger and the pressure got a bit too much to take I'd hop the bus and go to Old Sonora to see Sheriff Hank, but…hell, I don't know what changed. Hormones, probably, or maybe it was the transition to high school. Whatever the cause, I turned fifteen and sort of imploded. I kept it under wraps at first, but I was drowning. Pretty soon I was pushing everyone away, smoking dope, and skipping school."

"Pushing everyone away I can see, but the smoking dope and playing hooky? That is so out of character," Spencer said. "If you were feeling so strained, why didn't you just talk it out with Hank? I bet he would've been glad to help."

Lassiter spread his hands in helpless surrender. "I don't know why. I guess I figured there was nothing he could do for me, and maybe I'd put too much on him already. After all, what was I to him, really? Just some annoying kid whose mom dumped him off at the re-creation Wild West town on weekends when she 'couldn't take it anymore.' Whatever 'it' was."

"That's not what you were to him, and you know it," Shawn said.

"I was a teenager, Spencer - teenagers feed on self-delusion and imaginary tragedy."

"I suppose I can't exactly argue that point. Well, on to age sixteen, then. What happened? It had to be somewhat more significant than just being 'almost arrested' or you'd never be the shining example of clean-cut Johnny Lawman you are today."

Lassiter took a deep breath and cast his mind back to that day, almost twenty-six years ago. At sixteen he was already as tall as he would ever get but as narrow as a fence post, with chicken legs and a pencil neck and the wiry, over-wound potential energy of someone who was a lot stronger and more athletic than he looked. His hair was lank and long and hadn't been washed in at least a week, there was a three o'clock shadow on his thin cheeks that he hadn't shaved since ever, and if it weren't for the glazed and bloodshot look of his eyes and the pervasive sour-sweet aroma of wacky-tobaccky that hung about his hair and clothes no one would ever have thought him a pot smoker. The ripped-off sleeves of the Meat Loaf t-shirt showed more ribcage than a photo of an open heart surgery and he never stopped _moving._ No, anyone who came upon him during that dark time would have assumed his drug of choice was a bit stronger than mere Mary Jane. Like, say, Crack.

It was a rare moment of relative stillness that caught him out. He should have known to keep moving - after all, he was breaking the rules just being out of school without even taking the blunt he was smoking into consideration. When the police cruiser slowed to a stop across the street he knew he was caught. It was too late to dispose of the evidence and there was still too much of the Good Son in him for the lie, anyway, so he merely extinguished the illicit cigarette and waited for fate to clamp its jaws on him.

The police car was marked, the bulldog of a man who climbed out of it was not. Still, even with the drug clouding his mind it was obvious the man was indeed a cop - a blue uniform would almost seem like an overdone theater costume to frame the buzz cut and walrus moustache. And there was a shiny shield badge clipped to the big man's belt, right next to a very large gun in a holster, making identification simple.

"You wanna tell me just what it is you're doing there, son?" the man asked.

When you were caught red-handed there was only one thing to do - man up, look your accuser in the eye, tell the truth and accept your just punishment. "Smoking a joint, Sir," he said.

The bald-faced admission might have sounded insolent, but instead of getting angry the officer just stared back at him with only a slight narrowing of the eyes and then gave a short nod. "And instead of that you should be…?"

"In school, Sir. I cut class."

"I see. What's your name, son?"

"Carlton Lassiter, Sir."

"And what school do you attend, Carlton?"

"Holy Rosary High, Sir."

"You Catholic?"

"Yes, Sir."

"And do you think cutting class and smoking weed is a good thing to do?"

"No, Sir. I knew it was wrong."

"But you did it anyway."

"Yes, Sir."

"Why is that, Carlton?"

"I…can't really say that I know, Sir."

"I think that's a lie, Carlton, and you'd been doing so good with the truth up to now. You know why you did it, don't you? But it's complicated and hard to talk about."

"I…suppose that's true, Sir. But I guess I meant that I don't have any excuse."

The big cop took one step closer to him. "Pitch that doobie in the storm drain, Carlton." He obeyed. "You got any more on you?"

"No, Sir."

"You got a stash hidden somewhere?"

He hesitated for the first time, tempted to lie, but there didn't seem to be much point to it now. "At home, Sir. There's a loose floorboard in my bedroom."

"How much you got socked away?"

"Three joints, Sir."

"If I gave you a drug test right now, would I find you'd been doing anything other than marijuana?"

"No, Sir."

"Tell me about yourself, Carlton. What've you got for family?"

"My mom, my gramma, two sisters, and a brother."

"Dad's not around anymore?"

"No, Sir."

"Divorce?"

"Mom says he died but that's bullshi - I mean, she's not telling the truth, Sir. I don't think they're divorced, though, he just left."

"You're the oldest?"

"The oldest boy. My sister Janie is only a year older than me, though."

"How old are you?"

"Sixteen, Sir."

"Got your driver's license?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Break it out, let's see it."

He handed over his thin bi-fold wallet and the policeman inspected the California driver's license with solemn intensity before handing it back.

"What about the other kids? How old are they?"

"Lyle is ten, Lulu is three."

"I bet you have to take a lot of responsibility for them, don't you?"

"A fair bit, I suppose, Sir."

"Do you think you're setting them a very good example today?"

"No, Sir." He blinked and swallowed the tears of remorse that threatened to overwhelm him.

"Well, we'll just have to see. Step this way, son." The officer led him to the patrol car and around to the passenger side, where he opened the front door. "Hop in, Carlton."

"In…the front, Sir?"

"Yep."

"You…aren't you going to put the cuffs on me or anything?"

"Do I _need_ to handcuff you, Carlton?" A perfectly serious question, expecting a perfectly truthful answer.

"No, Sir."

"Then I'm not going to put the cuffs on you. Get in."

They drove in silence except for the occasional outburst from the police radio. Carlton soon noticed they were headed straight for his high school. The thought of being handed over to the nuns was almost more terrifying than the idea of going to jail.

The officer pulled up in front of the school and parked the cruiser. "Wait right here, Carlton," he said, and held his eyes for a long, serious moment before climbing out and leaving him there. Just…leaving him, unsecured and with the keys still in the ignition. Carlton was too high and perhaps too young to fully comprehend that he was being tested, but it was a test he had no difficulty passing. The expression of unfounded trust unnerved him but the thought of making a run for it never even occurred to him. He wanted to pace and prowl, but he sat still and waited.

It was almost an hour before the officer returned. He climbed back behind the wheel with a nonchalant glance at his passenger, as though there had never been a question in his mind that he and the cruiser would be right where he'd left them. "Your teachers say you're a good student, Carlton, but your grades and your behavior have slipped pretty badly lately."

"Yes, Sir, they have."

"Classes get too hard for you?"

"No, Sir, I've just been…acting stupid, I guess."

"You're doing a lot of sports and such - sure it's not too much to handle?"

"I…I don't think so, Sir. I can handle it just fine when…"

"When what?"

"When I feel good, I guess."

"Happy, you mean?"

"I suppose so, Sir."

The officer started the car but didn't pull out right away. Instead, he grabbed the radio handset and spoke into it. "Dispatch, this is Head Detective Fenich, badge number 57225. I'm headed home, ETA approximately twenty minutes. You need me after that, you can reach me on my home phone, over."

"Roger that, Detective. Dispatch out."

He shifted into gear and headed the car out of the city to where the houses spread out and barns and horse paddocks became more common than gas stations and bus terminals. Carlton was the first to break the silence.

"You're Head Detective?" he asked.

The officer offered his hand, though he didn't take his eyes off the road. "Detective John Fenich."

Carlton shook his hand, though it felt awkward. "And you're…taking me to your house?"

"Yes I am, Carlton."

"Er…why?"

"Gonna put you to work."

"…Yard work? Cutting grass, pulling weeds, that kind of thing?"

"Something like that." The Head Detective's voice had a suppressive edge that silenced Carlton as effectively as a command.

He pulled the cruiser into a long drive that led to a whitewashed farmhouse and a barn with faded, peeling red paint. A short, heavy-set woman in a red floral-print dress came out onto the porch as the car pulled up.

"John, you didn't tell me you were bringing a guest," she said, with admirable aplomb given Carlton's disreputable appearance. He suspected he wasn't the first stray the detective had dragged home.

"Kind of a spur-of-the-moment thing, Beck - Carlton here is going to help me out with our little problem in the barn."

"Finally! I really hope you can get something done about it quickly. I was starting to think you were going to let it sit there until the barn roof fell down on top of it."

"Well, now, we can't have that."

"Well you boys have fun out there. And John? Remember to let Carlton's mother know he's here."

Detective Fenich laughed. "A not-too-subtle hint. She's right, Carl - I've got to let your folks know where you are since I'm sure the school has let 'em know you're truant by now. Got a number for me?"

His mother finding out he'd skipped school was a far more terrifying prospect than either nuns _or_ jail. "555-3640," he said through the dry lump in his throat.

"Got it. Be right back."

The big man trotted into the house and disappeared. The woman remained on the porch, watching Carlton. He stood in the yard and kicked nervously at a patch of crab grass.

"Caught you playing hooky from school, didn't he?" she asked at last.

It was much harder to meet a woman's accusing eyes than a man's. "Yes, Ma'am."

"And you're on drugs?"

"Yes, Ma'am."

"Well, John must think you're salvageable. Don't let him down, Carlton."

"I'll try not to, Ma'am."

She watched him for a moment longer with a small smile playing about the corners of her mouth, then disappeared inside as her husband came back out. The detective gave Carlton a look of guarded sympathy, and Carlton supposed he knew why. Most people had to talk to his mother for only a few moments before they began to feel at least a little bit sorry for him.

"Come on, Carl. Let me show you my dirty little secret."

He pushed open the barn door and they stood inside, staring at a dusty tarp-covered corpse.

"What do you suppose is under there, Carl?"

"A car, Sir," Carlton said.

The detective laughed. "Yeah, but just about anyone could figure that much out. You're taking shop classes and I'd just about bet you're a car guy, so show me what you've got, Carl - what kind of car is it?"

Carlton eyed the suggestive outline more critically. "Some kind of old Chevy, mid-sixties model I think. A convertible coupe."

"Not bad, Carl, not bad at all," Fenich said, and clapped him on the back. "You've got the instincts of a detective, I think. It _is_ an old mid-sixties Chevy coupe."

He pulled the tarp off with a flourish. "There she is, Carl - my '66 Chevrolet Corvette Sting Ray. Purchased in a fit of reckless abandon in my misspent…well, I wasn't exactly a youth, but close enough. She was a real beauty back then, I'll tell you, but hardly a family vehicle. Our love affair was brief but passionate. It's time she found a new home, but she's going to need a facelift before that can happen. That's where you come in, Carl."

"Oh, _man…"_ Carlton had never seen such a beautiful machine in all his life, even though the 'Vette had seen better days. There was _potential_ in every line, even if there was a bit of rust and the mint green paint was faded and scratched. Mice had torn up the upholstery to make nests (probably in the engine block) but the eye of love is blind to faults, a simple truth that would break his heart when that eye fell upon a young woman named Victoria Parker. It needed far more work than could be done in a single day, but even if he never saw the fully restored vehicle he would feel proud to have contributed to the effort to put this beauty back on the road where it belonged.

"I've got a power sander in my garage," the detective said. "I'll run a drop cord out here and after we take off the trimming you can get started removing that old paint job and sanding down those rusty spots. While you're doing that I'll pop the hood and see what sort of mess we're looking at inside. It's going to cost me a fortune in new chrome alone, but I think it'll be worth it when it's all said and done, I really do."

The rest of the afternoon went by unheeded because Carlton's laser focus was entirely on the Sting Ray. He didn't even notice the iced tea and sandwiches that Mrs. Fenich brought out at lunch time, though his mouth formed the words "Thank you, Ma'am" entirely by rote. He ate with one hand, automatically, and could not be persuaded to put down the sander. Detective Fenich would later say he didn't understand how he'd managed it, but by the time he pulled the plug and shut down the restoration operation for the day Carlton had managed to take every speck of paint and rust off the body.

"You're a good worker, Carl," he said. "A damn good worker. But it's getting late and I'd better get you home. Besides, I've got to buy primer so we can get this metal covered up before the rust creeps back in. I never expected we'd get so far along in one day."

Carlton was disappointed, but he knew he'd done all he could. Still, there was something he had to know or he'd lose sleep over it.

"What color are you going to paint it?"

"You know, I hadn't really thought about it," Fenich said. "What color would _you _paint it?"

"Metal flake navy blue, with white trim," he said. He didn't even have to stop and think about it.

Detective Fenich whistled appreciatively. "Yeah, that sounds good to me."

Lassiter wrapped up his story and was surprised at how attentively Spencer had listened, with nary an interruption. "Punishment and reward all wrapped up in one," he said at last, when he was sure Lassiter wasn't going to say any more. "I assume he cut you some sort of deal - he'd sell you the car at what I'd have to guess was a serious discount provided you brought your grades back up, kicked the habit, and joined the police force?"

Lassiter shook his head. "Not exactly. There _was_ a deal, of sorts. He'd keep an eye on my grades and habits, as you say, and I was free to drop by the station after school just to talk, if I needed to, or to hitch a ride out to his place so I could work on the car. It took a long time to fix it up. By the time it was finished I was back on the honor roll and hadn't touched so much as an aspirin since that day. Then one day just before school let out Fenich invited me out to his place for dinner but said I'd have to find my own ride because he was going to have to meet me. I beat him there and thought I'd take one last look at the 'Vette before he sold it, but it was gone."

"You mean he'd already sold it? So that's a _different _metal flake navy blue '66 Sting Ray with white trim sitting in your garage?"

Lassiter smiled at the memory and chuckled slightly. "Just as I was slinking out of the barn like a kicked puppy, Fenich pulled up. In the 'Vette. Said he wanted to take one last drive, just to say goodbye. Then he tossed me the keys."

"Wait - you mean he _gave_ it to you? Just. _Gave_ it to you. Like he was saying, 'Hey! Happy birthday random drug abusing kid I almost arrested! Have a classic and rather valuable car!"

Lassiter spread his hands in a shrug. "Yes."

"Why couldn't _I _ever get almost arrested by a cop like that?" Spencer complained. "Oh yeah, I know why, because I always got _actually _arrested by my father."

"I thought he only arrested you the once, and for _stealing a car."_

"I didn't steal it, I borrowed it. I fully intended to return it. But I digress. Is what Chief Fenich did for you what inspired you to become a cop, then?"

Lassiter nodded. "I'd considered it before then, but I didn't have a very clear idea of what a policeman really was. I thought it was all about making the arrest, taking down the bad guy, having the shoot-out…" he faltered a bit on the last part. "Fenich showed me the _other _side of what the police do. The helping people out part. The turning someone around before they become irredeemable part. Later on I realized it was exactly what Sheriff Hank had shown me, too, I just kind of lost the message in the staged showdowns and trick shot exhibitions."

Shawn smiled. "But you're sort of a trick shot and make the arrest kind of cop, Lassie."

"I won't tell you that I don't take intense satisfaction out of taking scumbags off the street, Spencer. But if I see an opportunity to help someone I try and take it. Unfortunately I don't have the character or respectability of a Hank Mendel or a John Fenich, but I do the best I can with who I am."

"You've got more than a little of both, Lassie. If it doesn't seem like people respond to it then it's because you're just hard to get to know. Especially if one becomes acquainted with you as one of your suspects. And, well, you do kind of treat _everyone_ as a suspect, sometimes, even if there isn't a case."

"I'm not the only cop in the world with a suspicious mind, you know."

"True, true. But you're the only cop _I_ know who makes Dirty Harry look like a Second Amendment abolitionist, which makes the suspicious mind a more nerve-wracking experience."

Lassiter chuckled again. "What? Henry never kept a gun in his bread box?"

"Are you kidding? If he'd left guns laying around when I was a kid I'd have put holes in everything and everyone in our neighborhood. He's never even owned a gun apart from his service revolver, as far as I'm aware. Oh, and the taser, but that doesn't count."

Lassiter actually laughed out loud. Spencer swallowed his surprise.

"You should do that more often, people wouldn't be so scared of you."

"Do what?"

"Laugh."

"Eh. Well, I've never had much of a sense of humor, I guess. Most of what I've got left is…pretty black and twisted."

"Can I hear the dead clown story?"

"You don't want to hear the dead clown story, Spencer."

"But how am I going to know how to make you laugh if I don't know what kind of story _makes _you laugh?"

"You don't need to make me laugh, Spencer."

"But that's kind of my _thing_, you know. People don't laugh at my zany shenanigans, I start to feel underutilized."

"Is that what all the flailing is for down at the precinct, then? Trying to get us to laugh?"

"I might…_exaggerate_ my reactions to psychic phenomena from time to time, in hopes of getting a snicker or a chuckle or an outright guffaw."

"Well…to be _honest _with you, sometimes it's hard not to laugh. But I couldn't tell you whether the urge is to laugh _with_ you or _at_ you."

Spencer smiled radiantly. "I've never made the distinction between them," he said gaily. "But why fight it? Would it be some sort of cardinal sin to laugh at work?"

"'Cardinal' is for _virtue_, Spencer. Sins are either venal or mortal," Lassiter corrected. "But yes, it would. Particularly since a lot of your jokes are at _my _expense, in front of people who are supposed to have some degree of respect for me as a senior officer."

"Oh come on, Lassie, is it so terrible to laugh at yourself? If you would then they'd know you're an okay guy."

"Spencer, I don't expect you to understand the nuances of respect, but try to comprehend this: as head detective I am frequently in the position of being responsible for the _lives_ of those same officers who laugh their heads off at your tomfoolery. If they don't respect me then they don't trust me, and if they don't trust me then they're more likely to make dangerous mistakes. So far it hasn't been a real issue but someday it could be, Spencer - _it could be. _And if I have to hand a flag to some young officer's mother because at a critical moment that officer was thinking about you and your crazy jokes instead of the bullets flying overhead, I'm going to be taking it out on _you_. With prejudice."

The smile dropped off of Shawn's face like a light going out. "I…never really…considered that," he said.

"Of course you haven't, Spencer," Lassiter said. "Stopping to consider the repercussions of your actions hasn't exactly been your MO to date. Which is one of the biggest reasons you piss me off, and why it pisses me off that you're dating O'Hara. She's a professional, I'm not worried that her feelings will get in the way of her work or that she'll hesitate to act just because you're tagging along some day…it's what will happen when you decide it's time to move on that makes me want to _shoot_ you. I don't like to see my friends get hurt."

Spencer looked away and picked at his cuticles. "Yeah. Well, if you want to say 'I told you so' you can, because Jules and I…have stopped seeing each other."

Lassiter sat still for a moment in silence, then leaned forward and grabbed the Desert Eagle and magazine off of the coffee table. He slipped the clip into the gun butt and laid the piece in his lap calmly. "Oh, really?" he said, conversationally. "Pray continue."

"Hey, woah, no need for that, now," Spencer said in genuine alarm. "She left me, I didn't leave her."

Lassiter snorted a laugh. "I wasn't going to shoot you, Spencer. Not with this, at any rate - the bullet would go through you, rip out my back wall, and end up in old Mrs. Klieger next door. Although that wouldn't exactly make me unhappy, come to think of it. So don't stop there or I'll go for the Walther - exactly what happened between you two and how much culpability do you have in the situation?"

Spencer sighed. He kept his eyes fixed mistrustfully on the golden cannon laying across Lassiter's legs as he confessed what only Juliet and his best friend, Burton Guster, knew.

"Jules said I was going too fast," he said in a rush. "You won't believe this, but I was getting 'too serious.' She's not interested in the home and family bit right now, at least not with me I guess. I, uh…I bought the engagement ring and everything. I was going to ask her to marry me that weekend we spent at the resort, but then the ring got stolen and that guy got murdered…and when I tried to broach the subject after we got all that cleared up she shut me down. Then a couple of months ago, while you were still in the hospital she gave me the 'let's stay friends' talk…"

Lassiter couldn't repress a wince of sympathy. "So you're telling me that all this time I was certain you were going to break O'Hara's heart, but she broke yours instead? Either I misjudged you, Spencer, or I misjudged your feelings for her. Either way I guess that means I owe you an apology."

"No, you don't," Spencer said softly. "I'm not saying I'm not responsible for the way things turned out between us. I think Jules figured out what I didn't exactly know myself - it wasn't _her_ so much as the relationship that I wanted. I pushed her too far too fast because I wanted stability."

"Stability? That's a disturbingly mature concept, Spencer. Are you in danger of growing up?"

"Hey, I'm not always as juvenile as you think of me…though I'll admit I haven't exactly presented much evidence of it. I guess lately I've been thinking it's high time I toned down the teen heartthrob act and started accepting a little more responsibility, but it's kind of a scary proposition after resisting it all my life. I think I sort of fixated on the idea that it would be a lot easier if I was with someone who was good at that kind of thing but who still liked me and put up with my shtick…like Jules."

Lassiter missed the look Spencer gave him as he said those words, a look that said _"like Jules" _was not really what he'd wanted to say.

"Well Spencer, for what it's worth, I'm sorry it didn't work out. It seemed like O'Hara had a good effect on you. Just…don't give up. There's someone out there for you." Lassiter was not used to giving comfort or relationship advice and the words fell off his tongue like pointless lies even though he was fairly certain they were true.

"So…don't get so broken up over a failed relationship that I start to gravitate towards women I will almost inevitably end up arresting?" Spencer said quietly. The words hit Lassiter like a slap in the face.

"I never professed to be a relationship expert," he said, and donned the mantle of asperity like a suit of armor. "This is why I don't talk about this sort of thing with people. Especially _you."_

"No, don't - I didn't - Lassie, I'm sorry, I didn't mean it like that."

"Difficult to take it another way."

"I know, and I'm sorry for that. What I really meant was…I know I'm not the only one who's had a bad ending to a good thing." Lassiter wasn't sure that was what the man had meant at all, but he accepted the revision.

"Lassie…could I ask you something? It's…really personal and NSFW and _really_ not Catholic-friendly but I kinda have to know. But you've got to promise you won't freak out."

"Before I promise anything," Lassiter said suspiciously, "Explain what 'NSFW' means."

"Huh? Oh. Not Safe For Work. Sometimes I catch myself speaking in internet acronyms. The other day Gus cracked a joke and I actually said 'lol.'"

"That's…sick."

"Okay, now you know what it means, so can I ask you my question? You've got to put the gun down first."

Lassiter put the Desert Eagle back on the coffee table. Spencer reached over and moved it to the other end of the table, out of the detective's reach. Then he moved the bowl of pistachios, too.

"All right, if you're satisfied that I am safely unarmed, ask."

Spencer eyed him briefly as though he _wasn't_ satisfied on that point, but finally he spoke. "Have you…ever…uh…"

"Oh, just spit it out all ready."

"Have you ever been sexually attracted to another man?"

"_What?"_

"See? You're freaking out. You were supposed to promise you wouldn't freak out."

"Explain to me why you would ever ask me that question and _then_ I'll promise not to freak out."

"Well, you know…sometimes I just got the impression from something you said or did that maybe you weren't completely one hundred percent straight - not that you're not a paragon of manly virtues, because you are."

Lassiter favored Shawn with a look dangerously close to the infamous Stink-Eye. "Even if this isn't one of your little 'jokes,' Spencer, what business is it of yours, anyway?"

"_I've _been sexually attracted to another man," Spencer admitted.

"What do you want, an award? And what does your fascination with Val Kilmer and Billy Zane have to do with anything?"

"No, a man I know. A man I…work with."

"Spencer, I'm not about to try and give you advice on how to land Guster. If something was going to happen there, it already would've. You two are like an old married couple already."

"Gus? Come on, he's like my brother. No, Lassie…not Gus."

Only the most obliviously naïve person on earth could miss the significance of the look Shawn gave him, and despite how incompetent Spencer sometimes made him appear, Lassiter was a far cry from a bad detective.

"Spencer…that's not remotely funny," he said. He chose to cling to the fantasy that this was all Shawn's offbeat sense of humor because the notion that it was genuine was too much to consider.

"I agree," Shawn said. He was still watching Lassiter with that earnest, hopeful expression.

"Spencer…I don't think it's time for you to give up on women just because O'Hara broke up with you. This is the kind of rebound misjudgment that could give you nightmares later on."

"It's not like that. I've been…attracted to you for a long time. Pretty much…from the start, actually. I wasn't exactly enthused about the idea, believe me - it's probably a big part of the reason why I've picked on you so much over the years. It's just…that night, when I saw you fall - Jesus, Lass, I thought you were _dead_. We _all_ thought you were dead. And I guess that's when I stopped trying to kid myself about what I felt for you. I _love_ you, Lass - C…Carlton. I love the way you tell me to shut up and go away, the way you've always been so quick to push back when I push you too far, even the way you knock me around physically. Hell, I _even_ love the way you hide your insecurities under a layer of pomposity. And I…really can't believe I'm just sitting here telling you all this. I guess I'm just glad I got the chance."

"I…really don't know what to say, Spencer. I don't think there's really anything I _can_ say."

Shawn sat on the edge of the couch for a moment, his face and nervous twitching registering uncertainty and hesitation. Then he leaned forward abruptly, wrapped his arms around Lassiter's neck, and kissed him. He pulled away slightly and took in Lassiter's narrowed eyes and too-still expression. "Damn it. I'm sorry, Lassie - I don't know why I - "

Maybe it was because he'd been alone too long, or maybe it was because Shawn was right when he'd said that Lassiter occasionally entertained thoughts that weren't "one hundred percent straight." Maybe the attraction Spencer had felt for him had even been, in some small degree, mutual. Lassiter didn't bother thinking about his motivations - he grabbed the collar of Spencer's red polo shirt and pulled him in for another, more intense kiss. After a brief moment of panic, Shawn melted into it and ran his hands through Lassiter's short hair, doing a pretty good job of making it stick up as wildly as his own. Lost in the moment he climbed into Lassiter's lap, but reality crashed back in on him when the police official switched from drawing him in to pushing him back and a weak fist pounded on Spencer's collar bone. Shawn opened his eyes, saw Lassiter's bone-white face and the fact that he seemed unable to breathe, and remembered that this was an injured man. He jumped off of him in a heartbeat.

"Christ! I'm so sorry - are you going to be okay? Should I call an ambulance?"

Lassiter shook his head vigorously and gulped in a deep, shaky breath. "'Mokay," he gasped out. He hyperventilated for a moment. "I'm out of my ever-loving _mind_, but I'm okay."

"Are you freaking out? Do you want me to leave? I will, you know. I'm sure I could get someone else to come help you out for the next few weeks, if you don't want your mother to do it. Hell, Gus and Jules would be glad to take a few hours apiece, and McNab would probably stop by, even Chief Vick," Shawn said in a small voice.

"I…am not freaking out, and I don't want you to leave. Unless you _want_ to leave."

Shawn shook his head. The silence between them was tense, expectant, but neither of them knew what to say. Finally Shawn swallowed the lump in his throat and said, "You hungry? I can't cook worth a damn, unless you've got an Easy Bake oven stashed somewhere, but I'll treat for pizza. Well _Gus _will, but don't tell him."

"If you'll leave off the pineapple, _I'll _buy the damn pizza."

"Okay, but if I have to give up my favorite topping then I'm going to need an order of cheese sticks, too."

"Deal."


	4. Chapter Four: A Signpost Up Ahead

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Psych or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other Psych-Os like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **M+

**Spoilers: **Through season six episode nine, "Neil Simon's Lover's Retreat"

**WARNING: **Shassie, meaning full-on homosexual Shawn/Lassiter angst and occasional explicitness.

**Chapter Four: A Signpost Up Ahead**

"Darling of the SBPD? Don't shoot, Love - it's your ZaSu."

The voice had a feminine singsong lilt but was gravelly and masculine. Shawn cocked a questioning eyebrow at Lassiter over the slice of Canadian bacon pizza he was in the process of stuffing into his mouth. Lassiter gave him an ironic look and set his own slice aside on a napkin. "In the living room, Zaze - come on in."

A huge…person, for lack of a better vantage, came in from the back hallway. "Oh, you have company! That's wonderful, Darling. I'll just skedaddle, then - I only stopped by to see how you were faring."

"No, Zaze, it's okay. Come on in, have some pizza," Lassiter invited. The newcomer hesitated uncertainly in the doorway.

"Are you certain, Love? I don't want to cause you any…embarrassment."

"Zaze, you're a classy lady and in no way likely to cause me any embarrassment. Now come in and sit down before I draw on you."

The newcomer stepped into the room. Shawn recognized immediately the six foot, six inch transvestite he'd last seen at Juliet's disastrous attempt at a surprise party for Detective Lassiter a few years ago. Her guest list had been taken directly from Lassiter's "Little Black Book" of past arrests and had necessitated his abrupt change of address.

"ZaSu, this is Shawn Spencer, my…friend and colleague. Shawn, this is ZaSu Fabulous. An old friend."

"Pleasure to meet you, Shawn. You're a policeman, then?"

"Ah, no, ZaSu - I may call you that, mayn't I? Although I'd be happy to call you 'Milady Fabulous' if you prefer, it certainly suits you to a tee. I'm an…independent consultant, but I often work with Carlton."

"He's a psychic, Zaze," Lassiter said, sounding both resigned and amused. "You've seen him on the news, I'm sure."

"Oo, _that_ Shawn Spencer. I thought you looked familiar, but I couldn't be sure. Television doesn't do you justice, Darling - you're much better looking in person. It's the same with Darling Carlton - you'd never guess how _scrumptious _he really is if you just saw him on TV."

Shawn sternly repressed the urge to laugh. "Scrumptiousness" was exactly the issue. "It's true. I saw Carlton on TV for_ years _before I ever met him, and never felt the first pang of appetite. Except for pineapple upside-down cake, but that goes without saying. Have you two…been friends a long time?"

"Oh yes, years and years. How long _has_ it been, Dearest Heart? At least ten, eleven years now, isn't it?"

"Sounds about right."

So, before the disastrous birthday party, which probably explained why ZaSu had been the only mystery guest to bring a gift.

"Were you a friend of Victoria's, too?" Shawn asked, with an apologetic look at Lassiter for bringing up his ex-wife.

"Not. As. Such. In fact, I'm afraid my presence in Carlton's life was a source of friction in the marriage. Victoria was always _very_ concerned about appearances. I was always careful not to let the neighbors get a good look at me, but…"

She threw up her hands helplessly. Shawn sympathized - life for a six and a half foot, four hundred and thirty pound transgendered cross-dresser couldn't be easy, even in California. Still, the odd-ball match up between the transvestite and the straight-laced head detective tickled his fancy and he desperately wanted to know the whole story, particularly if, as it seemed, "ZaSu Fabulous" was one of Lassiter's past arrests.

She excused herself to the bathroom and Shawn leaned forward to whisper to Lassiter. "I'm not sure how I feel about your yelling at me for calling you 'Lassie' when _she_ gets away with calling you Darling and Dearest Heart."

"That's just the way she talks. She calls herself 'an unabashed stereotype of a Transgendered American.'"

"So what gives? The tranny's got a key to your back door but your mom has to knock?"

"If you really find that odd then it just goes to show you don't know my mother," Lassiter said. "I gave ZaSu a key so she can get in if I'm not here. I told her just to come over if she ever needed a place to crash, for whatever reason. It hasn't been an issue for a long time but she still drops by fairly regularly, always after dark and through the back because she's afraid my neighbors will start to gossip if they see her. Probably only makes 'em gossip _more, _but I really don't care what they think. Not where ZaSu is concerned, at any rate."

"And you met her…where, exactly?"

"Arrested her for solicitation and drug possession."

"I can see how that would be the start of a wonderful friendship based on implicit trust."

"Remember the Sting Ray? Sometimes you've got to go out on a limb for people _before _they earn your trust. Eventually she decided she wanted to get her life back on track and let me help her do it. She's a good person and she leads a lawful life, even if she didn't always."

"You are a complicated person, Carlton Lassiter."

"Not really."

"I beg to differ."

"Feel free."

"I have just one more question," Shawn said.

"Yeah? What's that?" Lassiter asked warily.

"What did she bring you for your birthday? Not this year, I mean at Juliet's big surprise party that was a bigger surprise than she'd intended. At the time I figured it was either a tube of Astroglide or a ball gag."

Lassiter winced at the memory of the disastrous birthday. "It was a _book, _Spencer, nothing sinister or titillating."

"What kind of book?"

"A biography of General James Longstreet. ZaSu is from Mississippi so she kind of teases me about my Union affiliations."

"And General James Longstreet was…?"

"A Confederate general - Lee's second-in-command at Gettysburg. He was an interesting person, actually. After the war he kind of fell out of favor down South because he became a Republican and supported President Grant."

"Cary Grant was president?" Shawn said in a tone of wonder.

"_Ulysses_, as I think you're well aware, Spencer."

"They made me read that book in high school. I didn't know it was about a President."

Lassiter sighed and shook his head. "I don't know why I ever try to talk to you about _anything, _Spencer."

ZaSu came back from the bathroom, where she had obviously taken the opportunity to fix herself up a bit with makeup. Despite her pro football-player's size and voice, she actually made for a fairly classy-looking older lady if you overlooked the hair on the backs of her cake pan-sized hands.

"Sorry for taking so long, Dearest Heart - you know I never feel quite at ease in the company of a new person if I don't have my face on," she said. "And your friend is such a charming young man."

Even while talking with Lassiter Shawn had been searching his brain for something, anything, that he could connect to this new acquaintance. The fact that her gift to the detective had been a book brought an instant connection to mind - Fabulous Books for Cops and Crooks, a trendy new-and-used bookstore he'd seen in passing a couple of times. Small lettering under the store's name read: "Z.F. and C.L. Props." Such a gimmie. Sometimes being psychic was too easy. He put a hand to his head and launched into his spiel.

"ZaSu…I'm sensing that you are a small business owner. You own and operate a bookstore, don't you?"

"Why yes, I do! That's amazing," she said with a huge smile.

"I'm also sensing that Carlton helped you out with the business loan," Shawn added.

"Yes, he co-signed for me, which was just wonderful of him because there was no way the bank was going to take a chance on me without his help. I owe my Sweetie so much - for more than just my store, for my entire _life."_

Shawn looked at Lassiter and made a bold decision, inspired by that second kiss. If he was wrong he was messing up his own life, his father's life, and Gus's life, but he remembered the story of the Sting Ray and decided it was time to go out on his own limb. "I'm…also sensing that you're not a native Californian," he said, with only a slight hesitation. "You've dropped the accent, but you're originally from the Deep South, aren't you? I'm sensing a connection to the Gulf coast - Louisiana, maybe, or Mississippi. And you're an unrepentant Johnny Reb even though you don't hold with the more controversial ideals of the Confederacy and despite the fact that you left home because they couldn't accept you as you are."

Lassiter's jaw dropped but ZaSu was clearly tickled by his revelation. "Why bless you, that's absolutely right. My, you are a wonder, aren't you?"

"Yes," Lassiter said grimly. "Isn't he just?"

Spencer was certain the man was going to tell everything, maybe even grab the phone and call the Chief, but he sat quietly while Shawn and the transvestite continued making friendly conversation. The look he turned upon the fake psychic was far from friendly, but he didn't reach for his gun. Shawn considered that a hopeful sign.

Eventually ZaSu stood and said that it was time for her to say good night. "This one is _adorable_, Carlton Darling - " she said before slipping out the back door. "Don't let him get away."

"Believe me, Zaze, if I had my way he'd be in jail right now," Carlton said. ZaSu laughed and waggled her fingers in a final wave, then left the two of them alone, staring each other down.

"Don't ever make me your accomplice again, Spencer," Carlton said. "Guster and Henry might be willing to lie for you, but _I'm_ not."

"You wanted to know how I do what I do," Shawn said quietly. "I figured it was time for me to put that kind of trust in you, see if it was returned."

"I already _knew_ you were scooping information beforehand. Do _not_ make me part of it. I'll let this time slide, but I will _not_ play your stupid little game with serious police business."

"But…you won't turn me in?" Spencer asked.

Lassiter glared at him for a long moment, then shook his head reluctantly. "No, Spencer. I hate the _way_ you go about an investigation, but your results speak for themselves. I won't turn you in. Besides, everybody who got put away based on evidence you provided us would be eligible for a mistrial if I did."

"And…you won't take it out on Gus and Henry?"

"No. No more than usual, at any rate."

Shawn relaxed slightly. "Thank you."

"Do you _really_ want me to trust you?" Lassiter asked.

"More than anything."

Lassiter sat forward. "Then tell me how you passed the polygraph."

Shawn sighed. "Henry had one set up in our basement when I was a kid. He drilled me and drilled me until I could pass it. Basically any weird, freakish, sociopathic thing I can do - Henry taught me."

"So…how exactly am I supposed to place my trust in a confessed sociopath?"

"I'm not - _gaaa_, this is so screwed up. Look, you remember the questions you asked me? Of course you do, that's _your _little weird, freakish, sociopathic thing, or one of them at any rate - you've probably got a transcript in your pocket. I didn't tell you the whole truth about everything I saw and did, but I didn't lie, either. The _only_ question where I lied was when you asked me if I was psychic. That's the _only_ thing."

"But how can I _know_ that? You could have lied about…a lot of things." _Including the things you said tonight, and that kiss, _his eyes said.

"That's where I need you to make a leap of faith, Lassie," Shawn said helplessly. "I can't make you trust me. I don't _deserve_ your trust. But I need it. I really and truly do. Please meet me halfway on this. Please."

Lassiter shook his head and Shawn's heart sank, but finally the man said, "I'll try. I'll try, Spencer, but you're really going to have to work for it."

"Gotcha. I can give you tips on half a dozen open cases that should wrap things up for you, and I won't even - "

"No, Spencer, I don't need you to do my job for me. Believe it or not, I'm quite capable of gathering evidence and finding the perpetrator on my own. I did it for years before you came waltzing back to Santa Barbara, I do it all the time when you're preoccupied with Guster and dates and whatever the hell's on TV. Most of the cases you've helped us with were ones I was perfectly capable of solving myself, except I have to follow police protocol and that slows things down. Don't get me wrong - I'm not complaining. A fast result is a quick conviction, and one more criminal off the street. I would be _happier_ about your assistance if you didn't take every possible opportunity to make a mockery of police work in general and _me_ in particular, but it's something I can deal with if I have to, and knowing you I have to. No, what I need from you in order to trust you is some degree of _trustworthiness."_

"I…don't follow."

"Exactly, Spencer. You don't _follow_. Shall I elaborate? Fine. When we're going to check on a lead you give us, and I tell you to stay back and let O'Hara and me handle it, or at least to wait for us, what happens? You give me the big smile and the dumb nod, then promptly run off with Guster and dive headfirst into things without us because you've got to be the center of attention at all times and you've got to have your big 'reveal.' You are a _civilian_, Spencer, and _my_ responsibility when you work with us. What you do, what you fuck up in your incessant need to glorify yourself, what could happen to you when you do it - those are all ultimately _my fault_, Spencer. Do you begin to understand why I don't like having you around on cases? You're a heavy goddamned responsibility. If you want my trust, then you're going to have to learn to take a step back and do what I tell you when I tell you to keep your goddamned head down out of the line of fire. If that's too much to ask of you, then asking me to trust you is asking too much of me."

Shawn's first thought was that this demand was going to put a serious cramp in his style. Lassiter saw the flicker of uncertainty on his face and his eyes narrowed threateningly. "If it's too much to ask then you can get out of my house right now," he growled.

"No, Lassie, I - " Shawn gulped and resigned himself to truthfulness. "My first thought was that it would be really hard for me to hold to that, I'll admit it. But I _will_ do it, Lass - I will. I've…had occasion in the past to regret taking rash action, and I know that you're right. I never really considered how much trouble I was to you, I always just assumed that you didn't want me around because you didn't want the competition - I'm sorry for that."

"Actually the competition is one of the few _perks_ of the situation," Lassiter admitted. "The downside is the losing. I really _don't_ like to lose, Spencer, but as long as I get a few punches in I can handle it. You treat me like I'm incompetent, Spencer, and sometimes you get me so damned frustrated and pissed off that I _act_ incompetent. But I'm a good detective - one of the best. If that sounds conceited I don't give a damn - I _earned _the right to say it. I love my job and I'm good at it. Don't treat the work I do like it's easy or trivial and we'll have no further problems."

Incredibly, Spencer's lips split in a smile. _A smile!_ "What's so goddamned funny?" Lassiter demanded.

"I was just thinking, it is so very _us_ to have our first kiss _and_ our first boyfriend fight on our first date."

"This is not a - we're not - just - _damn it_, Spencer, you are the single most infuriating person on the face of the planet. _Worse _than Goochberg."

"You are so cute when you're angry - your ears turn red. Did you know that?"

"All right, get out. Now."

"Lassie, come on - I'm taking everything you said seriously, its just that I'd really rather talk about other matters right now, before your heart explodes or something. Taking you back into work-related issues strikes me as a bad thing to do when it's hard enough just to keep you away from the station long enough for your stitches to heal."

Lassiter didn't feel particularly mollified. "You'd _better _be taking it seriously, Spencer."

"I am. And for what it's worth, I never meant to, er…trivialize police work. Or you."

"I'll accept that. For now."

"So," Shawn said, and sat forward expectantly. "Can we get back to the hot man-on-man action now?"

"Don't even think about it."

Shawn pulled a moue of disappointment. "I knew it. You _are _freaking out. And here I was thinking that sharing a pizza and the transvestite best friend meant you were cool with this sort of thing."

"I'm not freaking out, Spencer."

"You are. Quietly. Internally. But very definitely freaking out."

"I am _not_ freaking out."

"You're doing a very good imitation of someone who's freaking out."

"_Spencer."_

"You had your tongue in my mouth, Lassie - you could call me _Shawn_ if you wanted to."

"That's not going to happen."

"See? I knew you were freaking out. Lassie, if it makes you feel any better I don't think that having a homosexual relationship means you're going to have to start putting pink cozies on your handguns."

"I am not - there is no relationship here."

"So I'm a one-night stand? That's nice, Lassie. And here I thought you were a committed guy."

"I know someone who _should be _committed," Lassiter muttered.

"No, now this is _my _turn to have the serious conversation. We can't pretend that kiss didn't happen, and _you_ can't pretend that you weren't into it. So cowboy up and let's talk about it."

"There's nothing to talk about, Spencer. Yes, it happened, I'll admit it, and God knows I regret it. It goes _no further."_

"See? You're freaking out."

Lassiter glared at him. "Look, you want the truth? All right, I _am _freaking out. But not because I think I'm going to have to start talking with a lisp or something. I'm a mature adult, I can admit that I have entertained same-sex fantasies on occasion, even if I'm not entirely comfortable with the idea of acting on them. You want to know the real reason why I'm freaking out, Spencer? It's because I acted on them with _you."_

"What's wrong with _me? _I'm adorable."

"Spencer, the fact that you don't understand why I would freak out over kissing you is exactly why I'm freaked out over kissing you."

"Oh, you're just hung up on that whole 'psychic' thing. When you remove that concept from the equation we've actually got a lot in common."

"Other than our shared gender, Spencer, what _exactly_ do we have in common?"

"Well…" Spencer trailed off uncertainly.

"Exactly, Spencer."

"Oh, come on, we have stuff in common. We're both crack shots."

"While I confess I find the ability to hit the nine-ring an incredible turn-on, it's not really a basis for a relationship. Even for me."

"We're both incredibly awesome detectives."

"You are not a detective, Spencer, and I find the fact that you call yourself that an insult to _real_ detectives everywhere."

"Hey - you called me 'Detective,' once."

"When was this?"

"When I got shot. Remember? I was on the hood of your car, I'd just shot out the radiator of the bad guy's truck. You said, and I quote, 'Good work, Detective.'"

"I hate to break it to you, Spencer, but that was actually directed at Henry."

"_What? _Aw, _dude!_ Come on, the memory of those words gave me warm fuzzy feelings for _weeks_. You can't take that away from me now."

Lassiter shrugged. "Sorry."

Shawn cast about for other commonalities between them. "We…both have motorcycles."

"Nice try, Spencer. I haven't ridden in years and have no desire to take it up again. I don't even know why I still own the bike, particularly since it should have gone to Victoria in the settlement."

"Come on, work with me here! We…both like cheese."

Lassiter cocked an incredulous eyebrow at Shawn. "Come on, we both still get fan mail for our roles on _Explocion Gigantesca de Romance," _Shawn said.

"I didn't _have_ a role on _Explocion Gigantesca de Romance," _Lassiter objected.

"The fans think differently. How many cheese samplers have you gotten since your little one-shot cameo? I think you have more squealing fan girls than _I_ do, which just goes to prove what they say about girls and guys in uniform."

"I don't _wear _a uniform."

"Uniform, cheap suit - it all works out to the same thing as long as you've got a badge on your belt and a gun in your holster."

"We have _nothing of any significance _in common, Spencer. Just quit."

Shawn knelt on the floor in front of the detective, who sat with a surly glower on his face and refused to look at him. "All right, Lassie - it's true. We don't have much of anything in common. But what does that mean, exactly? Nothing, that's what. Opposites attract, right?"

He laid one hand on top of Lassiter's and reached out with the other to touch his cheek, bristly because he hadn't shaved for a day or two. "I think we could be good for each other, you know that? You could teach me how to pretend to be grown up and responsible, and I could teach you how to cut loose a little bit now and then. All we have to do is meet each other halfway."

Lassiter glared, but he didn't reject the contact. Finally Shawn saw something break in his eyes and the man relented. "We'd…kill each other inside of a week," Lassiter said, desperate to cling to his objections.

"What you mean is that _you'd _kill _me," _Shawn said, "but I don't believe that. What's more, I'm willing to risk it."

"_Why?"_

And there was the crux of it, Shawn realized. Lassiter was not used to being wanted or accepted - very possibly he never _had_ been used to it, which would explain why he clung to the shards of his broken marriage for so long. A man used to intense loneliness would be desperately unwilling to give up that feeling of _belonging_. Big ego or no, Lassiter's self-esteem was about as low as Shawn had ever seen, and that put a heavy responsibility on his shoulders. Shawn knew he wasn't good at responsibility. He also knew that he was ready and willing to knuckle down and accept this duty. The image of Lassiter's limp form falling backwards with three grisly bullet holes in his chest wouldn't leave his mind.

"Because you're worth it, Lass," Shawn said softly.

"Since when?" Lassiter asked bitterly.

"Since always."

"Really, Spencer? Because I have a weird sort of feeling that this is some sort of messed-up pity play. You feel bad for me because I got _shot. _Maybe you even feel a little guilty, since we were there following one of your leads."

"I do feel bad, Lassie, and I do feel guilty - I just can't believe I didn't _see anything._ But this has nothing to do with pity and everything to do with second chances. You being shot didn't change the way I feel, it just changed the way I feel about _feeling it."_

"That makes about as much sense as anything else you say, Spencer."

"So you get what I'm telling you, then."

"Not an inkling."

Shawn smiled mischievously. "Good. I like to keep you guessing." He leaned forward and kissed him. After a moment Lassiter kissed back, reluctance changing to urgency. When the kiss broke they sat with their heads touching.

"This…is so weird," Lassiter said. "Rod Serling is going to pop up and start wrapping this plot any minute, I can feel it."

"Do you think he'll sing 'Da Ya Think I'm Sexy' for us if I ask him really nicely?" Shawn asked.

"That's Rod _Stewart."_

"Yeah, but you've got to admit, Rod Serling singing 'Da Ya Think I'm Sexy' would make for an awesome _Twilight Zone _ending."


	5. Chapter Five: Heaven Can Wait

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Psych or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other Psych-Os like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **M+, for explicit sexual content

**Spoilers: **Through season six episode nine, "Neil Simon's Lover's Retreat"

**WARNING: **Shassie, meaning full-on homosexual Shawn/Lassiter angst and occasional explicitness. Whoops, there it is! The Shassie smut rears up quite a little in this chapter, you can definitely spot it with the naked eye.

**Chapter Five: Heaven Can Wait**

When Lassiter woke in the early light of morning the only faintly disturbing thing about it was the fact that he was naked. He didn't typically sleep naked and couldn't for the life of him think why he might have done. Of course, he _had _dreamt a particularly vivid and disturbing dream, a dream in which he and Shawn Spencer actually kissed, actually _ended up _together _naked_ in his bed, though thankfully that was as far as the dream went. What exactly did it say about him that he could have such a nightmare? And it hadn't even _felt _like a nightmare, which was more disturbing than anything. He pushed the memory from his mind and drifted back to sleep as Shawn's arm stretched across his waist and the younger man snuggled sleepily into his shoulder.

He woke abruptly, he _thought_ almost immediately - in fact it was nearly a half an hour later. By that time, Shawn was nowhere to be found. _Just my imagination,_ he thought, still too tired and too deeply embedded in denial to realize the truth. He closed his eyes again but did not sleep.

He smelled bacon and eggs and cinnamon toast and coffee. His eyes snapped open as Spencer bounced enthusiastically into the room. He was wearing Lassiter's pajama bottoms, with the cuffs rolled up several inches.

"Wakey-wakey, sleepyhead," Shawn said gaily. "Breakfast is ready. I still think it's not good for you, but I made a pot of coffee - I figured you'd need the boost."

Lassiter put his hands over his eyes. "Oh, my God…" he groaned.

"That's very sweet, Lassie, but I really don't feel comfortable letting you call me that - at least not before I've shown you how I can put my leg behind my head and stand up straight."

"I…am dead. I am dead, and this…this is hell."

"I'm no theologian, but I have a hard time picturing Satan decorating in such a subdued palate. Although that foxhunt print looks like something he'd like. Come on - I made French toast and the syrup is getting cold."

Shawn helped him up and into his bathrobe, then wheeled him into the kitchen. "There you go. See? This isn't hell, Lassie - there's no way you get French toast with warm maple syrup in hell."

"I can see it happening," Lassiter said bleakly. "It'll taste like ashes or something. The coffee will be liquid shit."

"Jeez, dude, I know I'm not Jamie Oliver but that's a bit harsh, don't you think? You haven't even tried it yet."

Lassiter stared into the depths of his mug in the same way that a teenaged poet stared into the blackness of the abyss. Then he shrugged and took a deep gulp of the scalding hot liquid, heedless of the heat. "It's…pretty good, actually."

"The Buzzword knows your taste in coffee. He ought to, as much of it as he's fetched for you. Come on, eat up. You want to grow up big and strong, like that cop you like, right?"

"_What _cop I like?" Lassiter asked suspiciously.

"You know, that cop that eats bad guys for breakfast, lunch, supper, and a midnight snack. What's his name? Oh yeah. _Detective Carlton Lassiter."_

"You're ridiculous," Lassiter said, but he couldn't quite repress a half-hearted smile.

"And you? Are _redonkulous," _Shawn said in a fake Spanish accent. He laughed uproariously. Lassiter rolled his eyes and turned his attention to the food.

Spencer didn't seem interested in eating breakfast. He sat at the small kitchen table next to Lassiter and watched him, which unnerved the policeman more than a little. He wasn't used to having people watch him eat, particularly with such intent fascination. It made him feel like an anthropology project.

"Er…thank you…for making breakfast," he said. "It's great."

Spencer smiled, but Lassiter's hopes that the compliment would be enough to turn the man's eyes away were dashed. "Not a problem."

"Are…you going to stare at me for very much longer?"

"Years, if at all possible."

"You are such a freak, Spencer," Lassiter sighed.

"I can't help it, dude - you've got bed-head from hell and a three-day beard that looks more like a three-_month _beard and you just look so damned adorable that I want to…just…freakin'…cuddle you like a snuggly teddy bear."

"And when you say things like that I want to punch you in the mouth."

"Hmm. Funnily enough, that's not the impression you gave me last night. I got an entirely different vibe about what you wanted to do in my mouth, as evidenced by the fact that _you had your tongue in it."_

Lassiter dropped his head into his hands. "I knew it. This _is _hell."

"Come on, Lass - it's time to move on from this heterosexual freakout thing. _We slept together. _That may be _all_ we did, but the principle remains. Now I'm sitting next to you at your kitchen table after having made you a delicious breakfast, and I'm wearing your pjs. We're practically _married_ already."

"Yeah, that's going to be a problem for me, Spencer. I don't know what the hell kind of…of…_thing_ is happening here, but it is most definitely freak-worthy and I'm going to need some quality freaking-out time to come to terms with this."

"Dude, this is your _third_ freak-out. I only freaked out _once_ when I realized I had the hots for you. Of course my freak-out lasted for five and a half years, but we don't have that kind of time anymore. I'm not getting any cuter and your hair isn't getting any darker. Well. I might be getting cuter. And I suppose we could get you some Just For Men. That stuff that fades the gray out slowly, so instead of people thinking 'Hey, he's dying his hair!' they think 'Hey! He's spontaneously youthening!'"

Lassiter got up and pulled a bottle of Black Label Johnnie Walker from a kitchen cabinet. He poured a knock into his coffee, stared at the bottle for half a second, and took a deep swig straight from the neck.

"Hey! Hey! Hey, now! None of that - you can't have booze in your condition," Shawn protested.

"Spencer, in my condition booze is the only option open to me."

"You have another option. You could simply accept that you and I have got this whole Felix and Oscar thing going on and roll with it." Lassiter shook his head in disgust. "Beau and Luke Duke? Jake and the Fat Man? Er…the Hardy boys?"

"I don't think any of those quite parallel this situation."

"_The Dark Half?"_

Lassiter blanked for a minute, then, "You mean that book written by Stephen King's alter-ego about a writer's alter-ego who comes to life and tries to kill him?"

"It's a _book?"_

"Er…yeah. You mean they made a movie out of it?"

"_Er…yeah, _starring Timothy Hutton and Amy Madigan."

"Hmph. Didn't know that. Regardless, I don't think likening this…ugh…_situation_ to a horror-suspense story is going to calm me down."

"I suppose not. But I think I know what will." Shawn disappeared into the living room where he proceeded to make a disturbing amount of noise, as though he were completely trashing the whole place. Lassiter took another deep swig from the bottle.

Shawn came back into the kitchen. "Dude, we have got to get you hooked up with an MP3 player. CDs are an outdated format. Honestly, I'm surprised you're not still using eight-track."

"They're in the basement," Lassiter admitted.

"Well we'll hold a nice funeral for them in the back yard when you're emotionally ready to let go." He had the remote control for Lassiter's stereo in his hand - he pointed it toward the living room and hit the play button. In a moment the slow strains of "Heaven Can Wait" floated into the kitchen.

"Meat Loaf seems an appropriate musical counterpoint to our relationship under any circumstances," Shawn said. "Or maybe the soundtrack to _The Rocky Horror Picture Show_. I'll be Dr. Frank-N-Furter, and you can be Riff Raff."

"Excellent. I always wanted to be a creepy handyman," Lassiter said sarcastically.

"Well you can be Brad Majors if you prefer, but I still want to give you a creepy handy…man." Shawn dropped to his knees and ran the fingers of his left hand through Lassiter's hair while his right hand slipped inside his robe and closed around his penis.

"_Not helping, _Spencer," Lassiter cried out in alarm.

Spencer stopped his mouth with a brief kiss. "Shh…just take a cue from the Loaf, Lassie. If this is hell, then heaven can wait."

He kissed him again, deeper, and took his time about it while his hand continued slowly working Lassiter's reluctant erection. Lassiter didn't resist, but it was quite awhile before he actively began to participate. The problem wasn't that he didn't like what was happening, it was that he _did._ He even liked the fact that he didn't have to take the initiative. He knew he shouldn't be surprised that Shawn would be so much more…_aggressive _about this sort of thing than he was. Lassiter had never taken a particularly proactive role in any of his few relationships - in fact, every relationship in which he'd _ever _ended up sexually involved had been initiated by his partner. He knew he was not a natural leader but that didn't make him comfortable as a follower. He played the Alpha role in his professional life but in his personal life he was much more the lone wolf than a willing member of the pack. It was easier on his pride to think of himself as a "lone wolf" than as "awkward" and "shy."

Shawn's hands and mouth grew increasingly frantic, demanding. He broke away for a moment, pulled the waistband of the pajama bottoms down to expose his own erection and rubbed it against Lassiter's while his mouth and hands resumed their former actions. It was suddenly very clear to Lassiter that whatever was going on here, it was not likely to be one of the fake psychic's elaborate pranks. This was going quite a bit further for a malicious laugh than getting everyone in the Department to give Lassiter a snow globe for Christmas.

_I guess he was serious about this…attraction,_ Lassiter thought. _I suppose this means I'm going to be Shawn Spencer's "bitch." Oh joy._ And on the heels of that, _This had better not get out at the station._

He saw little point in continuing to pretend to himself that he wasn't going to go along with this. As always in his life, he was towed along in the wake of a stronger sexual identity. He was almost painfully naïve about the mechanics of sex between two men but what was happening now was easy enough to figure out, and he reached out a tentative hand and touched Shawn's thrusting cock. Shawn gasped his name into his mouth - well, his nickname at any rate. _Lassie._ Maybe not such a bad name after all, even if it _was _effeminate and called to mind deceased police dogs and similarly four-legged old-time TV stars. He _liked_ dogs, as long as they were larger than a Labrador turd and their yapping didn't keep him up nights. They were almost as good as horses.

Shawn, too, had a lot on his mind as this amazing new intimacy proceeded, mostly involving _noticing _things. He noticed, for instance, that for all of Lassiter's attitude and brashness at other times he was quite shy with his sexuality - not a complete surprise, but still a bit of an eyebrow-raiser. He also noticed that the man's brain continued clicking away regardless of how intense the activity. He might have been insulted if his own mind weren't at least as capable of multi-tasking. He wondered briefly how the dreaded "ex" reacted to the knowledge that her loving husband was capable of thinking of more than just _her_ during a nice heavy grope-session, or if she'd even noticed. There were other things he noticed, as well. The way the skin on Lassiter's index finger was calloused about halfway down, from squeezing the triggers of guns that required disparate pounds of pressure to fire, and the rougher, more obvious callous that ran across his palm where reins were apt to dig, which most likely meant he had more opportunity to ride than just during Civil War reenactments.

The need to climax pressed in on him. He didn't think Lassie was as far along as he was, but he wasn't certain he could hold out much longer. And then, on the verge of ecstasy…the doorbell rang.

Both men broke contact at the same time and stared at each other. Shawn was merely surprised, but Lassiter looked horrified. "Who the hell is that? It's…" his panic-stricken eyes raked over the digital numbers on the microwave "…seven twenty-six in the _morning."_

"Maybe it's Gus," Shawn said. "I asked him to bring me some essentials. I wanted him to bring them by _after_ work, though, so we could hang out awhile."

"Essentials?" Lassiter asked blankly.

"You know - my toothbrush, some clean clothes, my Nintendo DS."

The doorbell rang again. Shawn adjusted himself so that he was relatively properly clothed again. "I'd better answer it - Gus will be mad if I blow him off."

"Just don't - don't - …Oh sweet justice, just answer the door and get the man out of here," Lassiter said. He buried his face in his hands again.

Shawn left him sitting there and went to the door, where he discovered that they had bigger problems than an impatient pharmaceutical salesman. "Ah, Lassie…does that 'get the man out of here' order still stand if it isn't Gus?" he called.

"_Who is it?" _Lassiter called back. His voice was near hysteria.

"Well, it's not so easy to see through your little spy window, but judging by the wardrobe I'd say it's Sheriff Hank." _Either that or John Wayne is here for a visit._

"_Of course it is! Because this is hell!"_ Fully over the cuckoo's nest now.

"Do you want me to tell him you're indisposed?"

"_No, let him in, what the heck. Ma is probably with him, I can kill them both with one heart attack."_ Lassiter broke off in a wild gale of laughter.

"O-_kaay," _Shawn said, and opened the door.

The old cowboy sheriff didn't seem surprised to see him standing half naked in the doorway of Lassiter's house, but Hank Mendel was not a man who rattled easily. "Howdy, Shawn," he said in his slow drawl. "Binky in?"

"Yeah, he's in the house but out of his mind. Come on in, Hank."

The cowboy stepped inside and gave Shawn a slow once-over. "Sorry if I'm…interrupting something, Shawn," he said. "Just wanted to stop by an' see how Binky was doin'. Annie an' I were outta the country when…well, you know what happened I expect. Got back a couple of days ago and found the notice in the back papers. Scared the livin' daylights outta me, I ain't ashamed to tell ya."

"I bet. Believe me, we were all scared for awhile there. Well, have a seat, Sheriff, and I'll go see if he's…done with his breakfast, yet."

Hank was clearly far from fooled, but he merely nodded and lowered himself onto the couch. Shawn punched the power button on the stereo, where Meat Loaf had just launched into "Two Outta Three Ain't Bad," and sidled around the open corner into the kitchen.

"Lassie, you up for this?" he hissed. The detective, who still sat with his face hidden in his hands, snorted a wild laugh. "Come on, Lassie - it's _Sheriff Hank. _He just wants to know you're okay, he's not the morality police here to arrest you for rampaging gayness."

"Are you sure about that?" Lassiter asked. "I'm pretty sure I look guilty."

"Come on, let me have a look at you." Shawn pulled Lassiter's hands away from his face. "Eek. Man, you look like the end result of a drunken _ménage au trois _between Jack Nicholson, Tony Randall, and Chewbacca."

"You left out Mr. Bean and Cloris Leachman," Lassiter said.

"I was hoping to," Shawn said.

"_Blücher," _Lassiter spit out, and laughed.

"Well keep this up and you won't have to worry about the morality police arresting you for gayness. They'll get you for substance abuse instead. Come on - deep breaths, blue ocean, go to your happy place…do you _have_ a happy place? Go to the gun range, Lassie, go to the gun range."

Lassiter took several deep, uneven breaths and seemed to calm down a bit. Shawn smoothed out his hair as best as he could and straightened his robe. "That's better. You ready?"

Lassiter nodded, though his face paled noticeably.

"All right. Buck up, dude - remember, this is _Hank_. Hank loves you like the son he never wanted."

He wheeled Lassiter into the living room and left him there. "I'm going to wash the dishes," he said. "You two have a…have a good talk."

Lassiter sat in silence and looked anywhere but at Sheriff Hank. "You…okay, Bink?" Hank asked. "You look a little…frazzled."

"No! No. No. No. No. No, I'm not frazzled. I'm perfectly all right. Why do you ask?"

The old cowboy shrugged a slow shoulder. "Dunno. Just a feelin', I guess. How's the…" he gestured at his own chest.

"Ah. I'm healing. Slowly. There were complications, they had to cut me open again a couple of times, but, ah…all's well that ends well. I guess."

Hank nodded thoughtfully. "Wish I'd been here. Glad you didn't have to go through it all alone."

"Wh - what do you mean?"

Hank shrugged. "Looks to me like there's a lot of folks that care about you, Binky. Always had to worry about that, with you. Never seemed to have many friends back when you were a kid."

"Oh. Yeah. I suppose I do have…friends. A few."

"This man Spencer, he's been taking care of you since you got out of the hospital?"

"Actually, Hank…uh, only since yesterday. The Chief hired him to keep me from…er…over…over-extending myself." Lassiter blushed to the tips of his ears.

"I see. Take it she had reason to worry?"

"I, uh…might have given her probable cause."

Hank nodded again. "Hard to sit by gathering dust while someone else shoulders the hard work."

"Yeah."

"Suppose that partner of yours has taken over for you while you're out of commission?"

"Yes. Mostly. Some of my cases have been reassigned to other detectives but she's got the bulk of the heavy work."

"Can she handle it?"

"Definitely."

"Then I suggest you let her. Stop worrying about work and focus on gettin' well."

"I'm trying."

"You let Shawn help you out with that. He'll keep you busy."

Lassiter gave the cowboy sheriff a guilty, sidelong look. If Hank noticed he pretended not to.

Both men fell silent, but while Sheriff Hank seemed perfectly at ease in the silence Lassiter was unaccustomedly tense. He didn't like keeping secrets from this man who had been the closest thing he had to a real father since his grandfather died, particularly not dirty secrets. Spencer might think that Hank would be able to accept or forgive a lapse of heterosexuality but Lassiter wasn't so sure. Hank wasn't a _Brokeback Mountain _type of cowboy.

"You're growin' yer beard?" Hank asked suddenly. At first Lassiter thought it was some sort of cowboy euphemism.

"No. No, I…just haven't shaved in a couple of days."

"Couple a' days? Really? I'd a' guessed a couple a' months."

Lassiter rubbed the whiskers on his chin. "Why does everyone keep saying that?"

"Because you look like a sasquatch, Lassie," Shawn called out from the kitchen. "I dig it."

"Eavesdropping much, Spencer?"

"Not enough. A real gossip glutton would starve to death on rations from you two."

"Why'nt you come on in here, Shawn, and sit a spell?" Hank invited.

"I'm washing dishes."

"Really? Haven't heard any water running, or a single clink or rattle."

Shawn poked his head around the corner, a huge grin on his face. "Caught me. Well, if Lassie doesn't mind…"

"It's okay, Shawn, come on in," Lassiter said. He resigned himself to his fate.

Shawn bounced in and flopped onto the couch next to Sheriff Hank. "Show Hank the Franken-stitches, Lass."

"I think that the Franken-stitches can remain undisclosed, Shawn," Lassiter said.

"Oh, come on. He's going to have some awesome scars, Hank - I think he's just shy because the sternum bush has been shaved."

"The…sternum bush?" Hank said.

"Chest hair. Spencer is a moron," Lassiter explained.

"Aw. Ten seconds ago you called me 'Shawn,' now it's back to 'Spencer' and insults. I'm hurt, Lass."

"That's not the first time I've ever called you by your first name, you know."

"No, but it's the first time that it really _meant_ anything."

Lassiter glared at Shawn. Hank cleared his throat pointedly. "Listen, boys, I know it ain't none a' my business or anything, but…have you _really _only been together since yesterday? You kinda talk to each other like you've been married for years."

Shawn burst out laughing, but Lassiter saw nothing funny. He blushed such a brilliant shade of red that Shawn might have worried about his blood pressure if he hadn't been laughing too hard to breathe. Lassiter swallowed the hard dry lump in his throat. "Hank, I…"

"Binky, give me some credit," Hank said. "I won't lie to you and say it doesn't come as a bit of a surprise to me to find that you of all people have taken a swing for the home team, but Shawn's a good fella. He cares a lot about you, that was obvious to me the first time I met him. And my philosophy on this sorta thing has always been that if it ain't another man's wife or another man's horse, then God's probably okay with love wherever and with whoever you find it. If He ain't, then I'm not sure I'd care to meet Him."

"I don't want to say 'I told you so,' Lassie, but…I told you so," Shawn said.

Lassiter hung his head in shame. "I'm sorry, Hank. It's…not that I was trying to _keep _it from you - "

"Yes it is," Shawn interrupted.

" - but I haven't really come to terms with this myself yet," Lassiter finished. "I should have known I could trust you."

"Well now, I don't consider this as big a deal as arresting me for murder," Hank said, "so if I can say 'no hard feelin's' over that I can accept your apology for this. Can I give you just one little piece of advice, Binky?"

"What's that, Hank?"

"Hold yer head up. Shame ain't no part of a good thing, and it ain't fair to Shawn, either."

"Would you listen to the man, Binky? He's a folksy slow-talking _genius,"_ Shawn said. "Like Dr. Phil in a cowboy hat."

"I believe I told you never under any circumstances to call me that, Shawn."

"I thought that prohibition would be lifted when in the presence of Sheriff Hank."

"Well, it's not."

"You don't like being called Binky?" Sheriff Hank asked. He sounded genuinely surprised.

"I don't like it when anyone other than _you_ calls me Binky, Hank," Lassiter admitted.

"Even your Mama?"

Lassiter looked confused. "Ma doesn't call me Binky, Hank."

"She used to. That's where I picked it up."

"Ma used to call me Binky?" Lassiter still couldn't figure it out. Shawn stepped in helpfully.

"Lassie's mom calls him 'Booker,' Hank," he said. "I think maybe you misheard her."

Hank sat stunned for a minute, then laughed out loud. "Well shut my mouth and call me a cattle rustler, all these years I been calling you Binky and you never said a word. I apologize if it bothered you any; all I can say in my defense is that your Mama's got a voice a man prefers not to hear if he can help it."

"You're telling me," Lassiter said.

"Hank, you told me a little bit about how you and Lassie first got acquainted," Shawn said, "but not a whole lot else. Tell me about him - what was he like as a kid? I try to picture it and see him wearing a black suit and a sidearm."

"Well he didn't wear a suit back then," Hank laughed, "but otherwise he was just about what I suppose you'd expect. Quiet, curious, and _way_ too serious."

"What about his brother and sister? Were they much like him?"

"Janie and Lyle, you mean? I never really met 'em. They'd be in the backseat of the car when his Mama dropped him off, but they never got out. I met Lauren once but only a few years ago."

Shawn looked at Lassiter in disbelief. "So…what? Your mom just drove you forty miles out of town and dumped you off at the wild west tourist trap on your own, like an unwanted puppy?"

"Pretty much."

"That seems…kind of mean."

"So you _do_ know my mother."

Shawn shook his head vigorously. "No, no - we're missing some key piece of information here. Mothers don't toss their kids out of the car and forget them, not if they give even _half _a damn. How did she usually treat you? Did she yell and scream at you a lot?"

"At _me? _Not so much. Janie and Lyle got most of the volume."

"Ah _ha! _Were they particularly _difficult _children?"

"No, not really. Janie went a little bit 'boy crazy' kind of early on, which drove mom nuts, and Lyle was…well…kind of like _you."_

"Lovable? Adorable? Incredibly good-looking and of superior intelligence?"

"Hyperactive and annoying. Traits _he_ never grew out of, either."

"So boy-crazy Janie and ADHD Lyle stay with mom while quiet, curious, and way too serious Carlton gets dropped off at the wild west town on weekends. During the rest of the week, you helped her look after them, didn't you?"

"Best I could, yes."

"And she worked during the week, but had weekends off?"

"Most of the time."

Shawn snapped his fingers. "It was a reward, not a punishment. She was giving you your weekends off."

Lassiter looked skeptical. Shawn explained. "When a fight breaks out at a hockey game, who do you put in the penalty box, the referee? No. If she were at her wits' end and needed to get rid of an annoying child she wouldn't dump the one that _wasn't _annoying, the one that took a little of the pressure off of her in the first place. But what, then? She couldn't dump Lyle, he was too little and would probably get thrown out of town after breaking everything in it, anyway. Not Janie, because if she batted her little precocious eyelashes at the wrong boy she's going to end up abducted or worse. No, she dumps Carlton, who likes horses and cowboy movies and can be trusted to look after himself for a few hours without getting into trouble or getting himself kidnapped. She might even have thought that that kind of thing didn't happen to boys, anyway. She figured if those two little hellions were driving _her_ up the wall on weekends then they were probably making _you_ nuts all week long, so she took you out to Old Sonora to give you a break."

"You…may have a point," Lassiter admitted reluctantly. "But that doesn't exactly sound like my mother."

"Parents can take you by surprise sometimes," Shawn said. "Henry surprises me all the time. Doesn't mean I'm _wrong_ when I say he's a horrible, horrible father and out to ruin my life, but it may mean that I'm not entirely right, either."

"I'd say he's probably got it nailed, Bink," Hank said. "I sure'n hell didn't ever get the impression you were a particularly 'high-maintenance' kid. Never stood _still_, but didn't get underfoot at all."

Shawn asked Sheriff Hank about the world tour he and his wife just returned from, and the old cowboy launched into a spirited story of the Argentinean pampas. With the "big secret" out in the open conversation came easier and Lassiter actually started to relax and enjoy himself.

"Well, I'd better get back to Annie before she gets the roving eye," Hank said at last, and winked. "We're plannin' on stickin' around awhile, Bink, so don't be a stranger. You're always welcome, too, Shawn."

"Likewise, Hank," Lassiter said. The old cowboy stood up and offered each of them a handshake in turn. He kept control of Shawn's hand a moment longer than was necessary.

"You take care of my boy, Shawn," he said. "'Cause if you break his heart, I ain't gonna have much compunction about punchin' yer face in. Couldn't do that to Victoria."

"Heard and understood, Sheriff," Shawn said. "I'll take good care of him."

"You better."

Hank left and Shawn locked the door behind him. "Well. Where were we?" he asked as he turned around.

Lassiter held up a restraining hand. "Spencer, I need a shower and a shave. _Badly._ Clothes would be nice, too, in case anyone else decides to drop by. Like the Pope."

"Okay, okay. Please tell me you have something other than dress slacks and button-downs hiding somewhere?"

"In the dryer. Basement."

"Ozzim. Hold tight for a minute."

He returned in a few moments with a basket of laundry in his arms. "Have these been in the dryer since…er…"

"Since the night I got shot, yeah," Lassiter said. "I'd just put them in when you called."

"Yeesh. Well, they're not exactly Bounce-fresh but at least they're clean." He pulled a pair of black sweatpants and a black hooded sweatshirt out of the basket. "I suppose it would be too much to ask that you'd actually have clothes in _color."_

"I have clothes _in color."_

"One burgundy dress shirt that shows clear signs of being a little-worn birthday gift - from Lulu? Thought so - does not qualify you as having clothes in color. We'll have to fix that. I will _not_ have my boyfriend dressing like Sgt. Joe Friday 24/7."

"I'm supposed to take fashion advice from a man who dresses like an unmade bed?"

"We'll get Gus to chip in his advice."

"I will _not _wear purple."

"No, no. No, with your skin tone purple would look ghastly. Pink is more your shade, I think."

"_Spencer…"_

"Well, we'll see, then."


	6. Chapter Six: The Obligatory Shower Scene

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Psych or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other Psych-Os like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **M+

**Spoilers: **Through season six episode nine, "Neil Simon's Lover's Retreat"

**WARNING: **Shassie, meaning full-on homosexual Shawn/Lassiter angst and occasional explicitness. Back to very little smut, and a homophobic mother rears her ugly and possibly demonic head.

**Chapter Six: The Obligatory Shower Scene, and What Came After**

"I am perfectly capable of showering on my own, Spencer," Lassiter said, without much hope.

"Possibly, but I haven't had a shower yet, either, and I got a look at your hot water heater while I was in the basement - I have little hope that there's enough for two showers. Besides, I am not at all confident about leaving you alone in that slippery tub. _And _I find the idea of showering with you incredibly hot."

Lassiter sighed. "Can't you go fifteen minutes without talking about sex?"

"Yes. Provided I spend those fifteen minutes actually _having_ it. Think about it, Lassie - hot water, body wash, loofahs…this is _the _recipe for pr0n."

"…Prawn?"

"Chatspeak for porn. Look, never mind. I don't have time to teach you the nuances of internet language. The point is that I was about half a second from being an exceptionally happy man before Sheriff Hank showed up, and now I've got a _really_ bad case of the blue balls."

"Ah. So you're a _traditional_ romantic, then?"

"I'll buy you a half dozen yellow tea roses later. _Come on!"_

Shawn pulled the bath robe from Lassiter's shoulders and turned on the shower. When the water was warm he pushed him under the spray and climbed in with him.

"Careful - don't let the shower hit those stitches head-on," he said, and made Lassiter stand with his back to the shower head. Despite what he'd said about wanting to get pornographic, he didn't seem particularly inclined to act on his words. Indeed, at first it seemed he was actually only interested in making sure Lassiter managed to get clean without falling in the slippery tub. He washed Lassiter's hair with at _least_ as much care as he would wash his own.

"You're getting kind of shaggy, for you," he observed. "Shaggy, and curly. Looks good, though - _way_ better than the super-short thing you had going awhile back, looked like a bipolar self-mutilation issue. Still, a trim wouldn't go amiss. I am kind of tempted to ask you to let your beard grow for awhile, though. I think you'd look kind of hot with a beard. You know who I think you'd look like? That nasty asshole sheriff on that show, you know, where the U.S. has been nuked but these people in a small Kansas town are still trying to survive…what was it called?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Lassiter said, "but I am _not _growing a beard. And why would you consider equating me to a 'nasty asshole' some sort of compliment?"

"Hey, he was a bastard, but he was _hot."_

"So you've been attracted to a _lot _of guys, then?"

"Not really. Val Kilmer, of course. Billy Zane. But other than those guys? Not so much. Just ones that look like you, really."

He squeezed a small amount of body wash onto a sponge and started a cautious scrub of Lassiter's chest. "You've lost so much weight, Lass," he said as he carefully dabbed the skin around the stitches. "You're so skinny it makes me want to cry."

"It won't last," Lassiter said.

"Maybe not, but it's just one more reminder of how close we came to losing you." He leaned forward and rested his face against Lassiter's shoulder and slipped his arms around his waist. Lassiter closed his own arms around Shawn's shoulders. The sensation of standing there, naked under the shower and sharing an embrace with another man, was strange but not at all unpleasant. Then Shawn's shoulders began to shake and Lassiter was alarmed to realize that he was crying.

"Shawn - hey…"

Spencer pulled away and wiped his eyes. "I'm sorry. I know - 'there is no crying in this dojo,'" he said in his growly imitation of Lassiter's voice.

Because he had no idea of what to say, how to explain that he found Shawn's tears disturbing only because they were _for him_, he made perhaps the first correct social decision he'd made since he'd had to deal with O'Hara's reaction after being pulled off the side of the clock tower during the Yin case, and it was the same decision he'd made then. He put his arms around Shawn's shoulders and drew him into a tight hug, unmindful of his sutures, and held him close while the water from the shower head poured down on them like warm rain.

"Favoritest cop in the universe, hands-down," Shawn mumbled into his shoulder. "I hope Gaar'blaarg doesn't get mad when I take his commemorative plaque away."

"You are such a freak, Spencer," Lassiter said.

"That sounded almost _loving_, Lassie," Shawn said.

"Well, maybe you're not so bad after all. Except when you are."

"Likewise."

"Come on, let's get this shower over with before we run out of hot water. I'd like to get this briar patch off my chin."

"Oo, but you've got to let me snap a quick pic of it, first. I need evidence of my salt-and-pepper Wookie to show Gus later."

Lassiter sighed. "I suppose that's better than being an Ewok," he muttered.

"_Rrrraaaaaaagggggggh," _Shawn agreed.

Shawn resumed his careful sponging, made slightly more difficult by the fact that he seemed unwilling to break the embrace. Lassiter knew this was far from the most effective shower he'd ever taken, but he found himself unable to begrudge the wasted effort. He still felt a faint sense of unreality at the strange ease with which he stepped into this new and very different sort of relationship, but what was the oddest part of it? The fact that he was with another man, or the fact that that man was Shawn Spencer? And even _that_ notion was starting to have the feel of destiny to it.

Eventually Spencer turned off the water and gently toweled Lassiter off. "Hold off on the shave for a sec while I grab my phone," he said, and shot out of the bathroom still soaking wet and with sunlight twinkling on his glistening bare ass. Lassiter shook his head sadly and resigned himself to damp carpets and very strange days ahead. He wondered if he hadn't at some point completely lost his mind.

Spencer returned in a moment with iPhone in hand. "Oh, the Force is strong in this one," he said, and snapped a picture.

"That had better frame out anything below the shoulders," Lassiter warned.

"Don't worry, I don't want the world to see the sad shorn sternum," Spencer said, and showed him the picture. "Face only. Besides, I'm going to send this to Jules - she doesn't need nightmares."

"O'Hara saw me just yesterday, she's not going to care about my five o'clock shadow."

"Yesterday this _was_ a five o'clock shadow," Shawn said. "Today it's a demonic entity attached to your chin like an alien face-hugger."

Lassiter rolled his eyes and pulled his shaving kit out of medicine cabinet. "It's just dark, that's all. It's no more than just bristle."

"Dude, seriously? A straight-razor? That's like _medieval."_

"It's also still the best tool for the job," Lassiter said. He worked up a lather in his shaving mug and proceeded with the mechanics of a close shave while Shawn watched him with all the fascination of someone who'd never seen the process before. Given the perma-scruff on his chin, it was possible he hadn't.

The Psych-phone beeped. "Oo! Return text from Jules. _'Why did Carlton glue a squirrel onto his face?' _Ha ha!"

"Yes, very droll." Lassiter finished his shave and washed off the remaining soap. "I don't suppose you'd be so kind as to hand me my pants? I'm not a big fan of walking around naked."

Shawn shook his head. "How about you take a nap for a couple of hours? It'll give me a chance to toss those sweats back in for a quick fresh-up after sitting in the dryer for three months."

"I don't need to take a nap, Spencer."

"You need your rest, dude," Shawn insisted. "When do you go back to get the stitches out, anyway?"

"Tuesday," Lassiter said.

"Well if you don't rest up then they're not going to take 'em out. Come on, I'll even let you walk." He took Lassiter's hand and pulled him into the bedroom. "Hey, they're not going to shave your chest again when they _do_ take the stitches out, are they?"

"I don't know. I don't think so."

"I hope not. You should be just about back to normal by then, hair-wise."

He pushed Lassiter down into the bed and planted a kiss on his lips before pulling the sheets over his naked body. "I'll clean the place up and get those clothes re-washed, and you can get up again when I've got lunch ready for you. Deal?"

"I suppose so."

"That's my boy. Sweet dreams."

Spencer pulled on his jeans and polo shirt from the day before and left the room. Lassiter closed his eyes but didn't sleep. In the living room Spencer had turned on the stereo again and Lassiter could hear him singing along to "Two Outta Three (Ain't Bad)." Lassiter wished he'd kept hold of the towel Spencer had dried him off with - he didn't like the idea of laying with wet hair on his pillowcase, but he decided to simply let it go. The fact that he was able to spoke either to just how upset he was or just how quickly he was learning to adjust to the devastation of Hurricane Spencer. The strange thing was that he didn't think he was particularly upset.

_He'll never keep this a secret,_ he thought. _He'll tell Guster, and O'Hara will figure it out even if he doesn't tell her. She might have figured it out already since he's sending her pictures of me fresh out of the shower, headshot or not. She's probably okay with this…sort of thing, but they just broke up and I wasn't exactly supportive of the relationship in the first place. If she wants revenge all she'd have to do is tell Vick…but she wouldn't do something like that. I think. And…even if she did, or if Vick found out on her own, would it be the end of the world? Probably not. Although it might be the end of my career._

The fact that it worked out as the same thing in his view was something he tried to ignore, at least for the moment.

Shawn continued to sing through the remainder of the album and when the last song faded out he put on another disc. His choice of follow-up was as off-kilter as everything he did - Rosemary Clooney. Lassiter's taste in music _was _fairly eclectic, but he generally preferred a smoother transition from his rock opera to his crooners.

"_You went away and my heeeaaaaarrrt went with yoooooooouuuu," _Shawn warbled, loud enough that Lassiter expected old Mrs. Klieger to call up complaining. The phone rang before the next song started. He answered with his eyes closed.

"Lassiter."

"Booker? Who is that singing?" Not Mrs. Klieger.

"Rosemary Clooney, Ma," he said evasively. "I've got the stereo on in the living room."

"Sounds like a man to me," his mother said suspiciously.

"I'm in the bedroom, Ma, I've got the door closed."

"Were you sleeping? Did I wake you?"

"No, Ma, I was just resting. I wasn't asleep."

"Well, good, because I just called to let you know I'm coming over. My friend Betty took Fritzy for the weekend so I'm all yours 'til Monday."

Lassiter's eyes snapped open. The _weekend? _It was only Thursday, for crying out loud. "Er, Ma…I don't think that's a good idea…"

"Nonsense, its no trouble at all. You're my little boy and you need your mother."

If Chief Vick finding out about him and Spencer was a nightmare scenario, then _this _was Armageddon. "Ma, I…I'm okay, really. You don't have to worry - "

"Booker, now no more arguing. _Someone_ has to take care of you, and it's not going to be _Lauren_, is it?"

"Lulu did a lot for me while I was in the hospital, Ma," Lassiter defended. "And…and someone _is _taking care of me." His mouth went dry at the dangerous admission.

"_What? _Not that…that…_affirmative action _woman they partnered you with. She's probably the reason you got shot in the first place."

"She's _not_, Mother, and _no_, she still has to work. It's…a friend."

"_What _'friend?'"

"His name is Shawn, he works with the department sometimes."

"A _man? _Booker, you can't let a _man_ take care of you."

_Oh Ma, if you only knew._

"He's a good guy, Ma," he said. "He's looking out for me. The Chief actually hired him to do it, so he's…he's like a real nurse." What a strange and unpleasant thought _that _was.

"Men are not nurses, Booker."

"Ma…I know that this is hard for you to accept, but in _this_ century men can be nurses and grade school teachers, and women _can_ be police officers and doctors."

"They can _be_ whatever the bleeding heart liberals are going to _let_ them be," she said. "Doesn't mean they're any damned _good_ at it."

"Oh mother…is there any wonder we're such a close-knit, well-adjusted family?" he sighed.

"Don't get smart. Booker, you can't have a _man_ looking after you because your neighbors will talk, and that's that."

"My neighbors talk all the time, Ma - they're retirees, they've got nothing better to do."

"There's talk, Booker, and then there's _talk._ You don't need to be the subject of the kind of _talk _a man in your house will cause."

"Wow, Lassie - the suspicious mind _doesn't _come from your years on the force, does it?"

Lassiter rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Spencer, how long have you been listening in on the extension?"

"Since you answered," Shawn said promptly and without apology.

"Booker, what is this? Who is that?"

"Ma…this is Shawn Spencer. The man who's helping me out."

"Hello, Mrs. Lassiter. So glad to have the opportunity to meet you, even if only over the phone," Shawn said cheerily.

"What the hell do you think you're doing, listening in on my son's private conversations?" she demanded.

"Oh, Booker doesn't keep any secrets from me," Shawn said. "Only from his mother."

"_Spencer…"_

"Mrs. Lassiter, I'm curious…did Carlton come by his extraordinary hugging and kissing skills genetically, or with practice?"

"_WHAT!"_ Lassiter's mother's glass-shattering voice reached entirely new decibels.

_He's out to destroy me, _Lassiter thought. _That's the whole point of this charade. He's going to completely obliterate every last shard of my life until there's nothing left._

"Booker, what the _hell_ is this sicko talking about?" his mother demanded.

Spencer didn't give him a chance to come up with anything. "Of course I suppose you aren't in a position to make a comparison between _his_ kisses and your erstwhile husband's, but let me tell you, if Mr. Lassiter was _half_ as good with his tongue as Carlton is, then I can certainly understand the attraction you must have felt for him."

"_Booker, have you gone limp-wristed?" _Mrs. Lassiter shrieked.

"He's never had a limp wrist in his life," Shawn said promptly, echoing something Lassiter vaguely remembered saying a long time ago. "That's the most attractive thing about him, really, as far as I'm concerned. He's _strong_. Upstanding. Hairy-chested. And he's got a _huge_ - "

The phone went dead. Lassiter only hoped that his mother wasn't likewise. " - heart," Shawn finished as he poked his head through the bedroom door. He had a silly-ass grin plastered across his face. "I don't think you have to worry about your mother coming to spend the weekend with you, now."

"Or ever seeing her again," Lassiter said. He replaced the receiver in the cradle carefully, his actions as calm as his thoughts were violent. "Why did you do that?"

"I couldn't resist, Lassie. Besides, I thought it was best to just tell the truth and shame the devil. Listening to you going into panic mode again like you did with Sheriff Hank was too painful - now it's over and done with and everyone can just start learning to accept."

"My mother doesn't learn to accept _anything_, Spencer," Lassiter growled. "I've been partnered with female officers for _nine_ of my fifteen years on the force and she _still_ can't accept that women can be perfectly competent cops."

"You'd rather live a lie and have to worry that she'll find out on her own than take the chance that she won't be able to accept that you're swapping spit with a man? She found out you and Victoria were separated two years after the fact. How did _that _work out for you?"

"Not well," Lassiter admitted. "But I'm pretty sure she considers the whole Sodom and Gomorrah thing a little bit worse than a failed marriage."

"You know, I've always thought that people must be misreading that story. I mean, _I_ haven't read it - when things get Biblical I tend to run away screaming. But everyone seems to take it that God destroyed these towns or cities or whatever because they were having butt-sex orgies…but I always kind of thought it sounded a lot more like He did it because they were like an entire colony of _rapists."_

"Actually I've always believed the story is meant to be a salutary warning against hedonism and paganism. But my mother is one of those who would tell you that it began and ended with the butt-sex, yes."

Shawn shrugged. "If she loves you, she'll get over it. Might take awhile, though."

"She's seventy-four. 'Awhile' is time I might not have."

"Are you mad at me?" For the first time he sounded relatively contrite.

Lassiter sighed. "Not as much as I should be. I'm starting to think you've run me _out_ of angry over the years."

"Oo, do you really think so? That would be great, because I was thinking we'd probably have to go to couples' counseling for our first 'official' date. If you're all out of angry then we can skip that and jump right into six years' worth of hot make-up sex."

Lassiter covered his face with both hands. "I wouldn't say I'm _entirely_ out of angry, Spencer."

Spencer bounced in and dropped to his knees by Lassiter's side of the bed. "Good. Make-up sex isn't quite as hot without a _little_ touch of residual mad." He gently pulled one of Lassiter's hands away from his face and kissed the corner of his mouth.

Lassiter grabbed him by the scruff of the neck, though he wasn't certain if he was trying to snap his spine or draw him in closer. "Easy, Grabby McGnab-Hands," Shawn griped. "Gosh, just when I was starting to get used to this new passive-aggressive you. Now we're right back to full-bore aggression."

Lassiter let go. Shawn grabbed his hand and put it back on his neck. "Hey, I didn't say I didn't _like_ it. Just…no bruising, 'kay? Or at least not without a safe word. And I suppose we really shouldn't get _too _S&M until you're fully healed. Oo, are you into bondage? I learned this really neat knot when I spent a week and a half on a shrimp boat in Louisiana."

"You are such a - "

The phone rang. " - Freak," Shawn finished on Lassiter's behalf. "Dude, I didn't realize a regular telephone could actually ring _angry_, but by the strident tone I'd guess that's Mama calling back to bawl you out some more."

"Crap."

Lassiter took a deep breath and held it while he reached for the receiver. He never got a chance to expend it in words.

"_Let me talk to that homo sonofabitch, Booker," _his mother's voice screamed through the telephone lines into his ear.

Lassiter passed Shawn the phone. "It's for you."

"Hello hello." Lassiter watched the change on Spencer's face as his mother laid into him. "Ma'am, I - no, but I - I'm sorry, but - woah, now that's completely uncalled for."

Spencer got up and wandered out of the room, still attempting to hold up his end of an extremely one-sided argument. Lassiter put one hand behind his head and made a close inspection of the cuticles of his other hand, and waited. Eventually Shawn shuffle-footed back in and put the receiver back in the cradle. He looked like the loser of ten hard rounds of boxing.

"So, how'd it go?" Lassiter asked.

"Wow. She's… Wow."

"I could barely hear her from the living room, and she only slipped into Gaelic profanity twice. She must like you."

"Gaelic? Is that what that was? I thought she was possessed and speaking in demonic tongues."

"No, when the demons come out she starts speaking Gaelic _backwards."_

"I'm not even joking here, man - I am rattled like you wouldn't believe. I've never been accused of unholy witchcraft by someone who _did not know _that I bill myself as a psychic."

"I take it she thinks you've put some sort of spell on me."

"She said she's going to Mexico to find a white witch to reverse my curse. In the meantime I am not to work any more dark magicks over you under pain of something called the Blood Eagle. Does that mean anything to you?"

"Yeah, Spencer. It was a Viking method of execution reserved for the worst offenders. Your back would be cut open and your ribs broken, then she'll reach into the opening and pull your lungs out."

"Ew. Er, where does a sweet little seventy-four year old Irish woman learn about something like that?"

"Who do you think taught _me?" _Lassiter asked. "She's something of a connoisseur of ancient torture and execution methods, I think she may have been Leonard Skevington in her past life. Not that I actually believe in reincarnation."

"Please, if anyone in your family is the reincarnation of the Pumpkin King, it's you. She…wouldn't _actually_ give me a Blood Eagle, would she?"

"Beats me. I wouldn't put it past her, though."

"I…may have to enter the Witness Relocation Program. You'll come with me, won't you?"

"Depending on exactly what sort of curse-breaking she intends to do, I may have no choice. People die in shoddy exorcisms."

"I'm…going to go check on that laundry, it's probably ready for the dryer by now. Er…I still feel kind of…scared. Might I borrow a gun?"

"No, Spencer."

"_Okay, fine, _but if I'm not back in five minutes call the Pinkertons."

"Edith and Margerie, the eighty-seven year old spinster twins that live across the street? What good will _that _do?"

"If anyone is scarier than your mother, it's a pair of pruney half-blind identical twins who never married and live together with their twenty-three cats. I'm hoping their creepy juju-mo'gumbo will cross-contaminate your mom's and give us a chance to escape during the resultant mojo-explosion."

"I honestly cannot imagine there being any survivors in a scenario like that."

Shawn smiled brilliantly. "You're actually playing along with me, Lassie - this is awesome. It almost makes me feel good about this whole _impending doom _situation."

"_Playing?"_

Shawn shook his head. "Don't shatter my bright elusive butterfly illusions with the scary truth, Lass. I'll be right back."

He started out of the room. _"Spencer," _Lassiter called. Shawn paused.

"Yeah, Lass?"

"Don't ever, _ever_ make even the vaguest allusion to _that song _in my presence again. I _hate_ that song, passionately. It makes me want to gouge my eyes out with a melon-baller."

"Hmm. I'd have pegged that one for a favorite. How do you feel about 'Yummy Yummy Yummy (I've Got Love in my Tummy)' by Ohio Express?"

"Homicidal."

"Weird. Okay, how about 'Honey' by Bobby Goldsboro?"

"Saccharine doesn't sit well with me. And I really hope it was the _Hell's _Angels that took her away."

"'Timothy' by the Buoys?"

"I'm surprised that a coalition of guys named Timothy didn't rise up and demand Rupert Holmes' immediate execution."

"You know that song is actually about a mule, right?"

"As if. You don't suffer paroxysms of guilt over having eaten a _mule. _Timothy wasn't a _duck_, either."

"An actual unprompted _Mystery Science Theater 3000 _reference! Lassie, you are a thousand times cooler than I ever suspected."

Lassiter chuckled slightly despite himself. "I figured you'd like that, Spencer."

"Spot-check for authenticity - have you seen the _'Manos:' the Hands of Fate _episode?"

"I have it on DVD."

"_Sweet! _We are totally watching that tonight when Gus comes over. I'll be Servo, Gus will be Joel, and you can be Crow."

"Doesn't it work better if you just let Joel be Joel, and Servo be Servo, and so on?"

"Dude, don't stomp your size eleven brushed suede Hush Puppies all over my dreams."

"I don't wear Hush Puppies, Shawn."

"Why not? _Anything _goes with Hush Puppies."

"Spencer?"

"Yes, my Sweet Lassifrassy?"

"Go away."

"Okay, okay, I'll go finish up the laundry. But I'll be back, Lassie - like the Terminator. Like flare-legged jeans. Like Pat Boone in biker gear."

"Why do you always have to bring up such disturbing associations? Go."

"I'm going, I'm going."


	7. Chapter Seven: How Low Can You Go?

**Disclaimer:** Standard disclaimer, I don't own any portion of Psych, yadda yadda yadda.

**Rating:** M+

**Spoilers:** Through Neil Simon's Lover's Retreat

**Chapter Seven: How Low Can You Go?**

The phone rang again almost as soon as Shawn left. Lassiter answered it unenthusiastically, almost certain he knew who was on the other end.

"Carlton Muscomb Tiberius Lassiter, _we need to talk," _his mother said preemptively. She was no longer screaming, but her bullhorn voice had taken on the ferocious snarl he remembered so well from his childhood. It meant she was far, far beyond pissed off and into the realm of homicidal rage.

"Don't you mean that _you_ need to talk, and I need to lay here and absorb your righteous fury?" Lassiter said without venom. He was too weary to feel angry or ashamed or even tremendously worried about this anymore.

"_Don't get smart, young man!"_

"Always with the mixed messages, Ma. 'Get straight As, become Valedictorian, get that Masters, succeed, succeed, succeed, but whatever the hell you do, stay stupid and pliable.'"

"_Booker!"_

"Let me ask you something, Ma, and I want your honest answer: Do you love me?"

"_WHAT?"_

"Do. You. Love. Me?"

"_Well, haven't I told you so a million times?"_

"Not nearly so often, Ma, and to be perfectly honest with you, I think I can count on the fingers of one hand the number of times you've said it when there didn't seem to be a condition attached. You love me if I behave myself, if I do what you want me to do, if I get those grades or that promotion. What I want to know now - what I _need_ to know now - is _Do You Love Me_, full stop, no strings attached, no matter who I am or what I do or how badly that might potentially reflect upon you?"

Silence on the line.

"Evidently not," Lassiter sighed. "Goodbye, Ma."

He put the receiver back in the cradle and put his hands over his eyes. Shawn came back in the room then, hesitantly, and Lassiter knew he'd overheard at least his end of that conversation even if he hadn't listened in on the other extension.

"You okay?" he asked quietly.

"Yeah, I'm fine."

"I think I'm supposed to ask you if you want to talk about it, but…I know that you don't want to talk about it."

Lassiter dropped his hands. "For the first time in my life, Shawn, when I say that there's nothing to talk about I'm telling the God's Honest Truth. It's pretty much all been said already."

Shawn bounced on the balls of his feet a couple of times. "Look…uh, do you want to get the hell out of here for awhile? Maybe grab some lunch out?"

"Feeling cooped up, Spencer?" Lassiter asked, with a grin.

"A little. It would also be nice to let the demons clear out of this place for a bit - I feel like I'm in a haunted house all of a sudden, which is just wrong because actually you've got a nice place here."

"It's not a _dry cleaner's, _but it's home," Lassiter said. Shawn saw the mischievous glimmer in his eye and grinned.

"Plus I wanna take a ride in that _sweet_ Corvette - _top down!"_

"My sweats are in the dryer," Lassiter pointed out.

"Oh, that's okay - I know you don't like to go out in public in anything less casual than the same damn thing you wear everyday to work, _sans_ tie. I really like you _sans _tie, Lassie, have I said that before? Just a little bit undone, a little bit rougher around the edges, a little bit more intimidating and a lot sexier… I like it when you don't flatten out your cowlicks, too. Gives you a Clint Eastwood-y _Man With No Name _kind of edge."

Lassiter blinked several times rapidly. "Shawn, I've completely forgotten what the original point of all that rambling might have been."

"Er…oh yeah. Clothes. I'm getting you some clothes."

He started digging through Lassiter's bureau drawers. He tossed him a pair of boxers and black socks. "You honestly don't own a single pair of white socks, do you?" he asked.

"I don't need white socks."

"Not even for jogging?"

"I have black sneakers."

"What about golf?"

"I don't golf very often. To be honest, I don't really care for it."

"Really? I thought you were out there every day off, smashing your balls into the sandtrap…"

"I heard that with my bad ear," Lassiter said mildly. "I only golf when I have to schmooze the DA or someone like that. There are far better ways to spend a day off than on the golf course."

He sat up and pulled on his boxers. Shawn tossed him a pair of slate-grey slacks and moved to the closet to rummage through the sea of neatly hung white shirts until he found the second of Lassiter's two pale blue shirts and the slate-grey blazer that matched the slacks. Lassiter dressed slowly in deference to his pain but after pulling on the shirt and buttoning it his hand automatically reached to pick up the shoulder holster that lay on his bedside table.

"_What are you doing?" _Shawn asked, eyes wide with horror.

Lassiter looked at the holster. He really _didn't _like to leave the house unarmed, and even though he was more than a touch paranoid it was justifiable - there really _were_ people out to kill him, plenty of them. But he slowly put it back on the tabletop. "Force of habit," he said.

Shawn came over to him, ruffled his hair with both hands, and planted a kiss on his forehead. "You are such a dink, Lass," he said fondly. "If you really feel the need for the best in feminine protection take a belt holster, please? I know you've got at least one."

"Right."

He shrugged into the blazer and stood up. He debated the possibility of arming himself for a moment before reluctantly discarding it. It wasn't like he couldn't defend himself _without _a gun, but it certainly provided a definite edge in case the _other_ asshole had one. And then he was forced to stop and think that, for the time being at least, he probably _couldn't _defend himself at all, at least not without almost literally busting a gut. Again he reconsidered the idea of bringing his Glock, and again he reluctantly set the idea aside. He would just take his chances. He seemed to be doing that a lot, lately, and somehow or other the chances he was taking seemed a lot more dangerous than the chance he'd taken three months ago when he opted _not_ to wear his Kevlar vest.

"You sure you're, uh…_okay_ enough to be up and about?" Shawn asked. "I mean, we won't be running laps or anything but I don't want you pushing yourself too far too fast."

"I'll be fine," Lassiter said, though in truth he was experiencing a mild case of vertigo. He'd spent a lot of time flat on his back, lately, to which he would never grow accustomed. Even as a teenager he'd spent as little time in bed as possible, not that it had ever been possible to get much sleep in the Lassiter house.

"If you're sure. Now, if you start feeling woozy or dizzy or dropsy or just a little too goddamn much pain, you tell me _tout sweet_, got it?"

Lassiter smiled, though it was a little rueful. "Donning the mantle of responsibility, Spencer? It doesn't quite fit you, you know."

"I'm trying to grow into it, Lassie," Shawn said. "I know there's no way in hell you'd ever put up with me being…well, _me_…for any amount of time at all. I tried growing up for Jules but it didn't work. I…still can't believe I hired a bouncy castle for her birthday. That was…fun, but stupid."

"_I _still can't believe you pushed the whole father issue," Lassiter said mildly. "That's a slightly bigger deal. A little tip for future reference, Spencer - no really does mean _no."_

"I know, but it did sort of kind of work out well in the end. I mean, I still feel pretty bad about it, but…geez, who would have figured _Juliet O'Hara's _dad would be a crook?"

"Actually it seems to be a theme at the SBPD. Maybe having a crook for a dad pushes a kid to grow up to be a cop."

"Maybe. Wait - are you saying what I think you're saying? Carlton Lassiter, the Amazing Disappearing Daddy was _not_ - could _never_ have been - a _criminal."_

"Petty theft, bookmaking, endless offenses of public intoxication, and getting caught with prostitutes."

"Well then maybe Mama was right - maybe he _did_ die instead of leave. Killed by an angry husband or bookie or gambler. Or pimp."

Lassiter snorted. "Please. He lives in frickin' _Summerland_, for Christ's sake. I've arrested him twice, and three years ago he called me at work to ask if I could very kindly like a good son take care of a little DUI problem he had."

Shawn gaped. "What did you do?"

"I took care of it."

"_No frickin' way!"_

"Yes frickin' way. I made absolutely certain that the judge reviewing the case knew that he had several priors so he was sent to jail for six months and got his license suspended."

Shawn burst out in a hearty laugh. _"There's _the Lassie we all know and love," he said. "Come on, there's this little bistro over on West Montecito I've been wanting to try for ages."

"West Montecito is a hell of a drive for a couple of sandwiches."

"Well, we can go someplace else if you've got something in mind, but there's a little errand I have to run and I know that I can get it handled within a quick hop skip and a jump - literally - of that particular restaurant. Plus it gives me a little extra time in the passenger seat of that 'Vette."

Lassiter shrugged. "Okay by me," he said. He grabbed his keys and wallet and followed Shawn out of the house to the garage. "If you want to pull your bike inside, go ahead," he invited.

"It'll be fine in the drive - there's not too much leftover space in here and I don't want to be the one to put a scratch in your paint job. I've got to say, Lassie - this is probably the cleanest damn garage I've ever seen in my life. Do you scrub the concrete? There isn't even a frickin' _oil stain _in here."

"Why _wouldn't_ I wash the floor once in awhile?" Lassiter asked, genuinely puzzled. Shawn merely shook his head and said nothing. He sidled over to the tarp-shrouded motorcycle and surreptitiously twitched the canvas.

"Leave it alone," Lassiter snapped.

"Oh, come on - I just want to see what kind of bike you've got," Shawn wheedled.

"It's just a fucking motorcycle, Shawn. Just one in a long line of past mistakes."

"Okay, jeez, I get it - touchy subject." Shawn opened the passenger door and plopped down into the white leather seat, a trifle sullen and pouty. Lassiter hesitated with his hand on the key.

"Look, I'm sorry for…for getting sharp with you," he said. "I just don't like to look at the damned thing, is all."

"Why don't you just sell it?" Shawn asked.

Lassiter sighed. "I've asked myself that same question at least a hundred thousand times. Where on West Montecito is this bistro of yours?"

Shawn gave him the address and Lassiter pulled the Sting Ray out of the garage and onto the street. They drove in a profound silence that Lassiter would have said Shawn was incapable of. He figured the man must still be pouting, but when he chanced a glance at him he actually looked relaxed and happy.

"What are you smiling about?" he asked, though he wasn't exactly sure why he wanted to know.

"Oh, I don't know. Beautiful day, awesome ride, the prospect of food on the horizon, and I'm sitting next to the hottest guy on the planet," Shawn replied glibly.

Lassiter hesitated, torn between what he knew he had to say and the strange fear that he would end up wiping that sunny smile off the younger man's face. "Shawn…I hope you realize that it just can't be…this damned easy."

"Sure it can, Lassie."

"No, Shawn, it can't. There is only one relationship possibility on this _planet_ that I would have thought was less likely to work than you and O'Hara, and that is me and you. And not just because I've never…I didn't know that I had…that I was gay," he finished in a rush.

A fleeting look of petulance crossed Shawn's too-expressive but always oddly closed-off face. "Fourth nervous breakdown," he muttered. "How many of these are there going to be, Lassie?"

"Nineteen," Lassiter said promptly, before he even knew he was going to.

"Can't we get them all out of the way at once?"

"Probably not. I strongly suspect I'll be freaking out at odd moments for the rest of my natural life. It's…just too goddamned weird, Spencer. I mean, I _like _you - I honestly do. I always have, almost since we met. You're…a good kid. But you're a _kid_, Spencer, a kid trapped in a grown man's body, and you drive me batshit crazy with your endless goofy antics, you get on my nerves, you piss me right the hell off every now and then, and I just can't see that ever really changing."

"_You've _changed," Shawn pointed out quietly. "You've changed quite a bit since we met. You're a lot calmer than you used to be, much more together emotionally. Nicer, even. Maybe even just a little bit more trusting. Why don't you think _I_ can change, too?"

"I know my faults, Spencer," Lassiter said. "I'm anti-social, temperamental, paranoid, anal-retentive, egotistical, insecure, and occasionally downright _mean_. God knows I've had enough head-shrinkers and therapists and marriage counselors and ex-wives tell me so. But the thing about knowing what your problems are, Spencer, is the fact that you can't blame them for your behavior anymore. So I've been _trying_ to change. I'm tired of being who I was."

"So am I," Shawn said, even more quietly.

Lassiter shot a fast glare at him, but the man was sitting almost molded into the bucket seat, somehow diminished. He turned his attention back to the road.

"What are you talking about, Spencer?" he asked, in his most irritable growl. "Everybody _loves_ you."

"No, they don't," Shawn said with a sigh. "Almost nobody does. Oh, sure, they _like_ me, but that's not the same, is it? No, the only people who actually _love _me are mom and Henry, because they're kind of obligated to, and maybe Gus, because he's some sort of sweet-natured masochist. Everybody else…I'm just too much to take in large doses."

"That's…" _not true,_ he tried to say, but he couldn't, because it _was_ true, at least from his perspective.

"You don't have to say it," Shawn said, as though reading his mind. "Shall I run through the list of _my_ faults as I perceive them? I'm narcissistic, rebellious of authority, irresponsible, immature, hyperactive, attention-seeking, immature, self-absorbed, and careless of others' feelings even when I really and truly do care for them."

"You said immature twice," Lassiter pointed out, after a bit.

"I'm twice as immature as the average immature person," Shawn said sadly. "I know it, Lassie, and I want to change. I actually _want_ people to look at me and say, 'There's Shawn Spencer. He's a real stand-up sort of guy.' Like they say about _you."_

"Nobody says anything of the sort about me," Lassiter said uncomfortably.

Shawn snorted. "Please, Lassie, is that what you think? Everyone who looks at you knows you're as steady as Gibraltar and completely reliable. A take-charge, damn the consequences crusader of justice, even if you do fly off the handle a little bit every now and then. _Everyone_ looks to you for support, from me and Gus to Jules and even Chief Vick, and McNab practically thinks you're God, even if he is a little bit scared of you. Which makes sense, come to think of it, since a lot of people are scared of God."

Lassiter finally found a parking space and they exited the vehicle. "Nobody looks to me for anything except comic relief," he said as they walked into the restaurant.

"_I'm _the comic relief, Lass," Spencer said. "Do you really think anyone is honestly laughing at _you? _You do get a little bit goofy now and then but most of the time, if anyone laughs at the jokes I lob in your direction then the _only_ reason they're laughing is out of shock, because _you_ are the Iron Hand of Authority and making light of you Just Isn't Done."

The waiter seated them at a small café table on the patio and handed them their menus. "Oh really?" Lassiter said when the server left them to consider their choices. _"Detective Dipstick_, remember that?"

"_Assholes," _Shawn spit out with real heat. Lassiter blinked. Shawn had the grace to look embarrassed. "I know, I know - I gave you a lot of crap over that one. But actually it really pissed me off - not just because I knew you were right about the stabbing. You said last night that you don't like it when your friends get hurt. Well, neither do I, Lassie. Neither do I."

"Then why did you have to rub it in?" Lassiter said.

Shawn spread his hands out helplessly. "I actually thought it might help take the sting out of it," he said. "Most of the time you seem to let my jibes kind of roll off your back. I thought if I played up the ridiculous angle then you'd start to feel like it didn't really matter what the _Courier _had to say, particularly if I could help prove that you were _right _and they were…were…well, dipsticks."

"Actually…it did help, kind of. That and a nice bitch session with O'Hara later," Lassiter admitted.

"Jules bitched about it, too?" Shawn asked, with a smile.

"No, but she stood there and let me bitch for a minute or two until I had it out of my system, which was nice of her."

"That's my Jules," Shawn said. "I'm sure she was sympathetic to the bitchery. She takes her responsibility as your partner _very_ seriously. She's about six tenths in love with you, you know."

Lassiter blinked rapidly. "Three fifths," he said at last.

"What?"

"Three fifths - when you do fractions you have to go for the lowest common denominator. And she's not - O'Hara is not _any fraction _in love with me."

"I could be wrong," Shawn said, though it was clear from his tone that he seriously doubted _that_ possibility. "But I'm pretty sure she is. Of course the other…er, _two fifths_, I guess, Mr. Pedantic…is the kind of adoration little sisters reserve for their big brothers, which I suppose is harder to get around than that whole 'creepy and unprofessional' issue of falling for your partner. And is it really so surprising that she should feel some attraction to you? Come on, Lassie, you're a good looking guy with a great career and a full head of hair. What more could any girl ask for?" He stopped to think for a moment. "Or any guy, for that matter."

"A good personality, for one thing," Lassiter said, though he was blushing to the tips of his ears. "And I'm not good looking."

Shawn rolled his eyes. "I always knew that pompous, arrogant streak of yours was mostly a front, Lassie, but are you seriously _this_ down on yourself? Haven't I been telling you all along that you're hot and sexy and I just want to swan dive into those beautiful blue eyes of yours? Hell, I think I said _that_ back in the first year we knew each other."

Lassiter looked quizzical. "I certainly don't remember _that," _he said.

"You were pretty well hammered at the time," Shawn admitted. "It was the first and really only time I can remember you looking so…vulnerable. Even when Vick took your badge during that Chavez mess, or when Salmatchia had your gun to your head, you still had some kind of….er…_armor_, for lack of a better word."

Lassiter fiddled with his water glass. "What are you thinking of ordering?" he said. "I'm thinking about the beef dip sandwich."

Shawn sat back in his chair. "I'm going to get you to drop that shield eventually, Lass - you can bet on it. Get your dad to make a book on it."

"Or maybe the ravioli."

Shawn picked up his menu and made a show of looking it over. "Well jeez, I suppose it's a bad move on a first date, but I've just _gotta _try the garlic wharf rats."

Lassiter blinked at him. "I haven't heard a _Far Side _reference in quite awhile," he said at last.

Shawn smiled beatifically at him. "I'm so happy you picked up on that. See? We're more alike than you thought. Maybe there's still a chance we can find some common ground to stand on."

"Only if we both develop the same 'Social Morays,'" Lassiter said blandly. Shawn laughed.

"I remember that one," he said. "Bunch of eels standing around with champagne glasses, although I've never been quite certain how eels manage to stand, given that they don't have legs. But I never really understood that particular joke."

"Social _mores_, Spencer - codes of proper conduct. It was a play on words."

"My favorite _Far Side _was a four-panel one where a bunch of ducks are standing around quacking, and then one yells, _'Chicken!' _and they all duck down as a chicken flies over their heads, and the caption said, '"Do you ever have trouble coming up with ideas?" the interviewer asked. "Well, sometimes," the cartoonist said.'"

"Mine didn't have a caption," Lassiter said. "It was just a picture of an ice floe in Antarctica, with a little penguin laying flat on his back, looking down his beak at the banana peel he'd just slipped on. Felt like life, to me."

The waiter returned. "Have you gentlemen decided?" he asked.

"I'd like the club sandwich, my good sir," Shawn said, "and a bowl of clam chowder."

"Beef dip," Lassiter added his own order with customary terseness. "Mozzarella, not Swiss, please."

"Very good. I'll be back with your order in just a few minutes." The young man gathered up the menus and left.

"I'll be right back, Lassie - gonna take care of that errand I mentioned. Won't take more than a minute." Shawn got up and hopped once, then skipped once, then jumped once, and finally walked away normally. Lassiter shook his head and hoped he wouldn't be seen in Spencer's company by anyone he knew.

Spencer was indeed back in very little more than a minute. He appeared at Lassiter's elbow quite suddenly like a genie out of a bottle, with one arm behind his back. "Here you go," he said, and presented Lassiter with the half-dozen yellow tea roses he had concealed.

"Spencer, what the hell do you think you're doing?" Lassiter hissed through his teeth.

"I told you I'd get you some, and I intend to keep my word to you - every word I give you." He remained stock still with the flowers in his hand, a statue of offering, and people were starting to stare. Lassiter grabbed the flowers and dropped them onto the table.

"Sit down, you idiot," he growled. Spots of hectic color appeared on his high cheekbones. "Where the hell did you get those?"

"Flower shop next door," Shawn said simply, and dropped into his seat. "That was why I wanted to come here."

"I suppose _Guster _paid for them?" Lassiter said sarcastically.

"No, I used my own money," Shawn said quietly. "I meant what I said when I said I wanted to change."

The florid color faded out of Lassiter's face. "Well, _thank you_, I guess, but I really wish you wouldn't do crap like that," he said. "It's as embarrassing as hell."

"What about what Sheriff Hank said about holding your head up?" Shawn said, still in that same quiet, serious voice.

"I'm not ready to hold it up in _public_, Spencer," Lassiter said. "I still don't know that there's anything I need to hold it up _for."_

"Lassie, you hurt me when you say that," Shawn said. "It's not nice to think I might be _nothing_ to you."

"That's not what I meant," Lassiter said.

"It's pretty much what you _said."_

"No, I - " Lassiter put one hand over his face momentarily. "Look - I'm _forty-three years old, _or almost. It seems to me kind of a late date to suddenly decide that I'm going to just…give up on women. I'm _not gay_, Spencer - not completely, at any rate."

"And have you heard from Marlowe lately?" Shawn asked quietly. It was a low blow, and he knew it. Lassiter looked momentarily stricken.

"No. She…called me at the hospital, once, but…I guess she got a taste of what it's like to date a cop and didn't like the flavor. The next time she called me, it was to tell me that she thought I was really special but that she didn't think it was fair to make me wait out the remainder of her sentence when she wasn't really sure what sort of life she'd want to live once she got out."

"Gus told me once that you were pretty bitter towards women," Shawn said. "He said you told him women ruin everything. You've been hurt a lot, haven't you? Mostly and most horribly by women, not that it's the fault of all of them."

Lassiter was ashamed at the memory. "I've had my moments of bitterness," he confessed. "Sometimes it just feels like I was born to have my heart stomped into the dirt."

Shawn finally got to the point he was trying to make. "Are you afraid that _I'm_ going to stomp your heart into the dirt, Carlton?"

Lassiter looked away and down, and Shawn had to really listen to hear his mumbled, "If I give it to you, of course you will."

The waiter arrived with their food, and eyed askance the green tissue-wrapped bouquet of innocent yellow flowers that sat on the table between the two men. "Club sandwich and clam chowder," he said, with an admirable effort of resuming his professional aplomb, "and beef dip - mozzarella, not Swiss. Can I get you anything else right now?"

"Thanks, I think we're good right now," Shawn said, since Lassiter seemed unwilling or unable to turn his attention back to the table. The waiter nodded smartly and left. "Carlton, look at me, please."

Lassiter reluctantly dragged his eyes back to Shawn's, and donned a half-desperate air of indifference. Shawn reached out and rested his hand on top of Lassiter's where it lay on the tablecloth next to his plate.

"You might be right, Carlton," Shawn said, still with that quiet, serious voice that was at least two decades older than his usual tone. "Maybe there isn't much chance that you and I could ever have anything lasting. Maybe I won't be able to cut back on the silly-ass act enough for you to put up with me, or maybe I'll break my promise to prove that you can trust me. I have no _intention_ of it, but it could happen. Maybe we'll get sick of each other even if I _do _manage to rein it in. I don't know what could happen between us because, and I know you've been waiting to hear this for a long time now, _I'm not psychic._ But there is one thing I _do_ know, and I'll tell you right now - no matter how our story ends, _I won't stomp on your heart._ I know I can be selfish and insensitive - hell, just ask Jules to tell you how much, if you really want to know. Gus can probably throw in about a thousand dollars of his two cents-worth, too. But I don't ever want to be one of the ones that put that stricken look on your face, one of the ones who adds to that brick wall you've built up around your feelings. I can't say that I'll _never _hurt you, I wish I could but I can't. All I can promise you is that if I _do_ hurt you, _it won't be deliberate."_

They sat that way for a long moment, sandwiches untouched, Shawn's hand folded over Lassiter's, staring each other down like lovers or enemies, or both. A police cruiser drove past on a slow patrol. The brake lights came on a few yards down the road, the cherry lights came on, and the tires screeched as the driver peeled out in reverse gear. Buzz McNab climbed out of the car and stared open-mouthed at the two of them, blinked several times in rapid succession, then wordlessly climbed back in and drove away with unseemly haste. Lassiter dropped his head to the tabletop with a groan. "Fate," he growled, "is the meanest bitch of all."


	8. Interlude: A Faint Buzz in the Air

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Psych or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other Psych-Os like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **M+

**Spoilers: **Through season six episode nine, "Neil Simon's Lover's Retreat"

**WARNING: **Shassie, meaning full-on homosexual Shawn/Lassiter angst and occasional explicitness.

**A/N: **A completely unnecessary break from the main story, but everybody loves Buzz, right? Sometimes it seems like Santa Barbara doesn't have any other uniformed patrol officers, and his apparent omnipotence intrigues me. A brief foray into the exploration of his psyche sounded interesting and apropos at this time. A nod to the author of "A Simple Man," GallowsHumor, for bringing to mind the intriguing notion that Buzz is a closet writer.

**Interlude: A Faint Buzz in the Air**

Buzz knew he was driving too fast, considering he didn't have a call to answer. He forced himself to slow down, but his mind remained a hazy blur. He did _not_ see what he thought he saw. His eyes were playing tricks on him.

_Focus, McNab,_ Head Detective Lassiter's harsh bark of command sounded in his brain like a gunshot. He was a frequent tenant in McNab's head, long since taking his place as the "practical/sensible" voice of professionalism in Buzz's psyche. _You want to be a detective someday? Well a detective has to trust his eyes. First you SEE, and then you THINK about what you see. I trust you have a brain, though I'm not sure you know where you left it._

Okay, Boss, so what _did_ I see?

What he saw was Detective Lassiter, _Detective Carlton M. T. Lassiter_, sitting at a patio table across from one Shawn Spencer. There were yellow roses on the table between them. There were sandwiches sitting before them untouched. Their hands were clasped on the tablecloth. They were gazing into each other's eyes as though moments from kissing or killing each other. Detective Lassiter did not have his gun drawn.

He shook his head to clear it. No, no, he was missing something, passing over something important. The hands - they weren't actually clasped, were they? No, Shawn had his hand _on top _of Lassiter's, and it would hardly be the first time Shawn had gotten handsy with the head detective. He seemed almost to _live _for getting into the irascible senior officer's personal space, probably because he knew that Lassiter did _not _like to be touched or otherwise manhandled by _anyone._

But what about that look? He'd barely noticed Shawn's face, he'd been too stunned at the sight of his commander, but what exactly did he see in Lassiter's? Well, that was easy. Lassiter looked like he was ready to put Shawn in a chokehold, a reassuringly Lassiter-like reaction. But…

But he was fooling himself. Sure, that "desire to commit illicit violence" look he knew so well was there, but there was something else there, too. Something desperate, something…hopeful. The word "hope" didn't jibe well with what he knew of his senior. What in heaven's name could _Shawn Spencer _have said to put _that look _on _Carlton Lassiter's _face?

He reached into his pocket and pulled out the little green-covered notebook he carried with him everywhere. This was not the same notebook in which he jotted down addresses and witness statements and crime scene details in his meticulous if slightly labored way, this was a different notebook entirely, one he would be very embarrassed if anyone were to accidentally stumble upon, particularly the head detective. It was a notebook in which he notated fleeting thoughts and fancies that he would then take home and fret and stew over until he either discarded them or managed to work them into one of the stories he wrote solely for his own amusement. Detective Lassiter would not be pleased, he was sure, to know that he was the inspiration for one of his major characters, a hard-bitten police detective who, if Buzz could remember his exact phrasing, was "a chewy caramel contained within a cocklebur." Even _he_ wasn't entirely certain what that unusually purple prose might mean, except that he thought Lassiter might be nicer than he let on.

He didn't take his eyes from the road as he wrote down a simple note-to-self in the margin of a well-scribbled page: _"Detective Lassiter = gay with Shawn Spencer?" _He underlined this several times.

He put the notebook back in his pocket and dug out his cellphone. He hit the 2 and waited for his wife to answer.

"Hey, Francie? Er…I just saw something kind of strange, and I kind of wanted to talk about it," he said.

"What is it, dear?" she said.

"Well…uh…I just saw my boss sitting in an outdoor restaurant with Shawn Spencer - you remember him, right? It…kind of looked like a date."

"Buzz, honey, Chief Vick would _never _cheat on her husband," Francie said doubtfully.

"Oh. No, not _that _boss. Detective Lassiter."

Silence on the line, then what sounded like choked laughter.

"Francie, I'm _serious. _They were kind of holding hands and everything."

He could almost hear her effort to compose herself. "Well, Buzz," she said at last, "what if they _were_ on a date?"

"Well…I was thinking that if they _were, _then…I don't know…maybe we should invite them over to dinner or something?"


	9. Chapter Eight: Twenty Questions

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Psych or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other Psych-Os like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **M+

**Spoilers: **Through season six episode nine, "Neil Simon's Lover's Retreat"

**WARNING: **Shassie, meaning full-on homosexual Shawn/Lassiter angst and occasional explicitness.

**A/N:** Wow, eight chapters and an interlude, and we're only just now alluding to the fact that there might, actually, be a case in this story. If I seem slightly verbose, blame it on the wolves. They're not great conversationalists.

**Chapter Eight: Twenty Questions**

They drove back to Lassiter's house in complete silence. Lassiter's grip on the steering wheel was murderously tight, broken only when he needed to shift. He sat so rigidly upright in the seat that it looked like he could spontaneously eject from the vehicle at any moment. Shawn sat no easier in his own seat, and chewed his lip while shooting worried glances at the detective beside him at regular intervals. When Lassiter pulled the 'Vette into the garage and shut off the engine, Shawn finally dared a word.

"Buzz won't say anything about what he saw to anyone, except maybe Francie. And _she_ won't talk."

Lassiter dropped his head onto the steering wheel between his white-knuckle fingers. "He doesn't _need _to say anything, Spencer. It's enough to know that he _saw."_

"But…but it's _Buzz_. Buzz is totally cool, right? I mean, for the last five years straight he's won the 'Sweetest Cop of the Year' Award. He won't bust your chops or blackmail you or even give you the stink-eye, not that I think he has one."

"Spencer, true as that may be, it doesn't really change the fact that he _saw."_

Now Shawn felt a faint surge of irritation. "And is that so goddamn terrible? I mean, Lassie, honestly, what did he see? Two colleagues - frenemies, pal-holes - having lunch together, like they've done at least a half a dozen times in the past. _That's all."_

"McNab isn't stupid, even if he seems a bit simple. He can put two and two together, Spencer, and there were frickin' _flowers_ on the table."

"And I pretended to be a dancing cat and sat in your lap during one of the first cases we ever worked together! The SBPD is used to seeing me do weird, slightly gay things to you, Lassie. Do you really have to start worrying that they're going to throw you a sock party in the men's locker room? They wouldn't dare, even if they _did _decide you were gay, you know. You're too intimidating. And too quick on the draw."

"Are you really so dense that you can't understand or imagine why it would be bad to be outed on the job, Spencer? Twenty-first century or not, _California_ or not, gay cops have it _rough."_

Shawn pouted. "I thought you _liked_ it rough, Lassifras."

"Not like that, I don't. Look, try to absorb this, would you? Gay cops…have a hard time getting backup. Gay cops…sometimes _do_ get sock parties in the men's locker room. Now if I was goddamned sure I was gay then I'd suck it up and deal with it but I'm not, Spencer. I'm just not fucking _sure_, do you get it?"

"I…do understand, Lassie," Shawn said. Then he shook his head vigorously. "Or maybe I don't. What the hell was that we did in your kitchen this morning if you aren't sure you're gay, or more accurately bi? What's with that shower and all the kissing?"

"I don't know, Spencer, okay? I don't know if I'm seriously attracted to you or if I've just been alone so goddamn long that I'll take a little fucking human contact wherever the hell I can get it."

It hurt, Shawn felt the sting all the way through the walls he'd built up around his _own_ heart over the years, but there was a clear note of apology in the words and he decided that he could forgive Lassiter for saying it, and moreover that he could be sensitive enough to understand the detective's conflicted emotions.

"All right, Lassie, I can accept that," he said. "And I've probably been pushing you too far, too fast. It's that good old narcissistic 'Shawn gets what Shawn wants' attitude smacking me in the face again, and I'm sorry for that. I never meant to make you feel pressured." He chuckled ruefully and shook his head. "This is why it was foredoomed with Jules - she was too nice to really smack me down when I screwed up, she'd just suck up the disappointment and forgive me. I need someone who's not afraid to chew me out once in awhile, rather than just get snowed in under all my crap."

"And you're absolutely _sure_ there's no woman who would do that for you? Because I could put you in touch with my ex-wife," Lassiter said.

"I've met her, actually," Shawn confessed. "But my motivation was solely one of getting a little inside information on _you. _She waxes rather nostalgic after two glasses of white zinfandel. She also gets a little handsy, but I expect you knew that." He shook his head again. "God, I'm sorry. I have no brain filter. Every idiotic thing just comes flopping right off the end of my tongue."

"It's okay," Lassiter said mildly. "She _does _get handsy. With every guy in arm's reach."

Shawn peered into his face, which was difficult as he still had his head down on the steering wheel. "Did…you know she was cheating on you while you were still married?"

"I _am_ a detective, Spencer."

"You knew…at the time?"

Lassiter nodded.

"And you still tried to make it work for more than two years after she kicked you out?"

"I believe from time to time I may have heard myself described as 'pig-headed stubborn.'"

"Man, that's dedication. Not that I'd expect anything else from you. I mean, after all, you're _you."_

"Some have described it as stupidity. Including both of my sisters _and_ my former partner."

"Oh…you mean…Detective Berry."

"Yeah."

Shawn sighed. "Were you guys really…sleeping together?"

"You mean you popped out with that little comment and you had _doubts?"_

"Well…were you?"

It was Lassiter's turn to sigh. "No, Spencer. Oddly enough, your much-vaunted psychic abilities failed you on that one. She was my _partner_. And my friend. There…there was an attraction, of course there was, but neither of us had ever taken the slightest step toward acting on it."

"Then why did she transfer out?"

"Her mother actually _did _have an accident. The fact that people were looking at her as though she were the recipient of the Homewrecker of the Year Award probably helped the decision, too. At that point people thought Victoria and I were still together, after all."

"How did people look at _you_ after that?" Shawn asked. He felt damnably guilty.

Lassiter grimaced at the memory. "I've never gotten so many 'atta-boys' in my _life," _he said in disgust. "Like Lucinda was some sort of trophy I'd won. We both tried to tell everyone that it _just wasn't true_, but nobody believed us because we didn't call you out on it right away. I guess we looked guilty."

They had, they'd even jumped away from each other a little bit. Shawn guessed the attraction had been both rather strong and perfectly mutual. He felt bad for ruining the friendship - eventually it probably would have evolved into more than that, and so much would have been different. _Lassie _would have been different, maybe better. Maybe worse. They'd never know, now.

"I know it doesn't mean much now, but, I'm really sorry I did that to you - to _both_ of you. I was grasping at straws and angry with you to boot, but in hindsight it was incredibly uncalled for. Lucinda seemed like a really cool lady."

"She was. _Is, _I expect, though I haven't seen her in six years. What you did taught me to keep my friends at more than arm's length and my feelings better hidden, but it's not all bad. I was a little shocked and appalled that they would pair me up with another female officer after that, but O'Hara is everything any cop could ask for in a partner, and then some."

"She is awesome. Come on, let's go inside - I'll let you have another cup of coffee."

"I think I need it," Lassiter sighed. He grabbed the keys and climbed laboriously out of the low-slung car. He looked a trifle pale and tired but his breathing seemed normal so Shawn figured he hadn't over-extended himself either physically or emotionally. Still, he put an arm around Lassiter's back and helped him out of the garage and up the stairs to the porch.

There was a yellow Post-It note on the front door. Juliet's scratchy, distinctively miniscule handwriting revealed who it was from. Lassiter peeled it off and read it.

_Carlton: Hope you're still alive, hope you haven't killed Shawn yet, though I suppose I could understand if not condone a murder. I'd rather you didn't have that black mark on your honor, though. I just dropped by because I wanted to talk to you about a case I'm working - I could really use your perspective, and perception. I know I should have called but I didn't expect you to be out, and it was kind of a whim that brought me by, anyway. I'll call you later and maybe we can set up a convenient time for a talk - and you're _going _to let me ride in that Sting Ray, dammit, sooner or later. Let's make it _sooner_, 'kay? Stay strong and remember your deep breathing exercises - Shawn means well, and he really cares about you. So do I. - Juliet._

Lassiter shook his head in amusement. "O'Hara, you are the only person in the world who can write a novel on a Post-It," he said aloud.

"What's Jules have to say?" Spencer asked, and craned for a look-see. Then he withdrew his head sheepishly. "Not that it's any of my business and I won't pry if you don't want to share."

"It's nothing much - she hopes we haven't killed each other yet and wants a ride in my car. And she wants my take on a case she's working. I kind of doubt that last part, though - she's probably just using it as an excuse to wheedle me out of the keys to the Sting Ray."

"I could see her wanting a second pair of eyes," Shawn said. "You're her partner, after all, _and _the head detective. If she can't have you on scene then at least she's still got you for a sounding board."

Lassiter unlocked the door and stood aside for Shawn to enter first. "No use speculating until she calls, I guess."

The answering machine flashed one message. Lassiter hit the button apprehensively.

"…_Carlton? Honey…call me back, please?"_

Lassiter blinked - something he'd rarely done in his life but seemed to be doing a lot of lately. The plaintive, apologetic voice in the recording was almost unrecognizable, but he knew it just the same.

"Er…was that…?"

"My mother," Lassiter finished in wonderment. "Yeah, it was."

"Are you going to call her back?"

Lassiter thought about it. "You know, the women in my family have always done something I call the Seven Days of Silent Treatment whenever they decided an offense was unforgivable," he said. "I'm expecting calls from Lauren and Janie tomorrow, by the way. But whenever Lyle or I were angry with _them_ we were expected to forgive and forget immediately. I don't think I'm ready to forgive and forget just now. I doubt I'll make her sit and stew for seven whole days, but seven hours or so seems like justice to me, somehow."

"She sounded…contrite. Are you sure you want to risk giving her a chance to snap out of it?"

"I want her to be goddamned certain that she_ is _contrite," Lassiter said. "I'm not going through the usual rollercoaster ride of her emotions." He dropped onto the couch with a wince and a sigh.

"Will you please take it easy on the dropping and flopping?" Shawn said. "You're a wounded warrior, you know."

"Want to watch some TV?" Lassiter asked. "I have no clue what the hell is on Thursday afternoons, but I'll watch whatever."

"Actually, as tired as you look, I doubt you'll stay awake long enough to watch _anything."_

"Same difference. I really don't watch TV, I just turn it on once in awhile for the noise. Unless I happen to be on it, that is."

"You do like getting on TV, Lassie."

He shrugged. "It's another thing we have in common I guess, Spencer - recognition equals acceptance. Why else would we both go so far out of our way, in our own separate ways, to seek attention and praise?"

"Wow, you_ have _done a lot of soul-searching, Lass."

"The quest for self-improvement has led me down some strange paths, Spencer. Reference tap class with Guster."

"You got really good, actually."

"Thank you."

"How about that coffee?"

"Jesus, yes."

"Could we have it in the fancy party room, in front of the fireplace? This room still kind of gives me the creeps, a little bit. I'd never been pistol whipped before."

"Yeah, but be careful - it took _three days _to get Guster's queso stain out of my carpet."

"I _told_ him to canoe his pita."

Shawn helped him off of the couch and into the "fancy party room," which was actually the room Lassiter used as his office most of the time, meaning there were more Claridge boards in here, more gruesome pictures of murder victims. There was, however, also a nice flagstone fireplace and a relatively comfortable sofa, and while it was just the next room over from the main sitting area - and still directly connected to the kitchen - it was a world of difference in both comfort and style. It spoke volumes of the man who lived in this house, who kept most of the world shut out of his life just as he generally kept them shut out of this room.

"Ah ha, I wondered where the DVD collection was hiding," Spencer said. He walked over to the cabinet where a surprising number of movies stood lined up like sentinels in neat rows. "Where did you hide _these _during the party?"

"In the guest room, along with the Claridge boards and everything else I didn't want the world to see."

"I suppose I shouldn't be surprised at the number of Clint Eastwood movies in here."

"I suppose you shouldn't."

"I notice you don't have _The Bridges of Madison County_, though."

Lassiter shuddered. "Heaven forefend. Victoria actually made me sit through that. I was crying by the end, but not for the same reason _she _was."

"Mourning the loss of that one hundred and thirty-five minutes you could never get back?" Shawn asked.

"You know that's right," Lassiter said, and laughed.

"_Mystery Science Theater 3000: The Movie. _Awesome. _Airplane_, double-awesome. Top…_Top Secret? _Dude, you _rock! _Carlton Lassiter: Closet Comedy Maven."

"I like anything that's a little bit twisted," Lassiter admitted.

"_Ah ha! _Now we know why you secretly like _me."_

Lassiter raised an eyebrow and regarded the man levelly. "…It could be possible."

Shawn turned his attention back to the walls. "You have a sword," he observed. He sounded surprised.

"I have a sword. I have several, in fact."

"That is somehow far more unnerving than the fact that you have guns hidden all over your house."

"I don't see why. If I'm coming at you with a sword, all you have to do is outrun me."

"I'll…bear that in mind."

"Just keep in mind that I _can _run faster than I usually _do."_

Shawn had seen Lassiter's second gear on one or two highly memorable occasions, and knew those words were true. "Thanks for the warning. Of course, running with a sword seems just about as well-advised as running with scissors, so…"

"I threw javelin at university," Lassiter said smugly.

"Okay, now you're _really _scaring me. You seem to be feeling more…er…energized. I haven't even gotten you that coffee, yet."

Lassiter shrugged. "I don't know, I like this room - kind of makes me feel relaxed, I guess. That's why I had the party in here, even though I really don't like letting people in. I think I'm going to miss it, actually."

"Miss it? What do you mean?"

"My lease is almost up, so I've decided to move. There's a condo I've got my eye on that's a lot closer to the station. It'll be nice to have neighbors that don't hate me. Yet."

"Oh. Is it a nice condo?"

Lassiter shrugged noncommittally. "It's not as large as this place, but how much room do I need? I'm just one guy, after all."

Shawn opted not to say what was on his mind to say - _"Not anymore" _- because he was fairly certain that might qualify as pushing. Instead he went into the kitchen and set the coffee maker to brew. He went back into the room and sat down on the couch next to Lassiter.

"It occurs to me somewhat belatedly that I've been drilling you for information about yourself for the past twenty-four hours. Maybe there's something you want to know about me?"

There were a lot of things Lassiter would have liked to know about Shawn Spencer, all of them pertaining to exactly how he managed to keep up his psychic schtick so convincingly for so long. "Not…in particular."

"Oh come on, Lassie - nothing? There must be something. What's my favorite color? Favorite food? How do I get my hair looking so indescribably awesome?"

"Your favorite color is green, your favorite food is freakin' pineapple - _anything_ pineapple - and you used to use Bed Head styling gel on your hair until you made an online friendship with a lady in Perth who sends you Kangaroo Paste three times a year, although I still have no idea what the hell Kangaroo Paste is or why you think it does anything extraordinarily wonderful for you that justifies tricking that poor woman out of the postage it takes to send it, let alone the cost of the product itself."

Shawn blinked. "Wow. You've been…paying attention."

"Not really. But you yammer on and on and I _am_ a detective, Spencer - I've been trained to remember details, even ones I'd much rather not know."

"So what _don't_ you know about me? Maybe you want to hear about my childhood?"

"I think I know all about it that I'd care to."

Shawn crossed his arms across his chest. "Oh yeah? So lay it on me, Mister Holmes. Tell me the story of Young Shawn Spencer."

Lassiter nodded. "All right, if that's what you want." He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "You were a smart kid. A _very_ smart kid, possibly a genius, but for some reason you hid it from everyone but those few who could see it regardless - your mom and dad. I suspect you were either targeted by bullies for being one of the 'geeks' or afraid you would be, and as your best friend was both a black nerd _and_ a tap dancer, you were bullied enough. You made yourself over into the 'class clown,' something a lot of insecure smart kids do, because it takes a lot of the pressure off, both from the mean kids and from teachers. Your mother left to pursue her career when you were a senior in high school, for which you blamed your father. You blamed your father for a lot of things, mainly for being there. Most of your childhood memories are of you spending time with your dad - and granted, I shudder to imagine just how…_pushy_…Henry must have been but hey, I have maybe a grand total of two memories of spending actual one-on-one time with _my_ dad, and _one _of them involves a bottle of Jameson's and a belt. But you have relatively few memories of time spent with your mother, for which again you blame your father, for monopolizing your time, even though the truth may be closer to the fact that her _career _monopolized her time - between a psychiatrist and a cop, I'd have to say that the psychiatrist was the primary bread-winner in the family. You inherited Henry's eye for detail and your mother's phenomenal memory, and it doesn't surprise me at all that Henry is bald - if I'd had to keep track of a kid as dedicatedly destructive and occasionally _self-_destructive as you I'd have torn _my_ hair out, too. Just dealing with the adult version of you for the last six years has put about twenty years worth of grey in it."

Shawn sat in utter silence and chewed the inside of his lip. Finally he said, "You…see a whole hell of a lot more than I give you credit for."

"Well, you've never given me much credit for anything, Spencer."

Shawn actually looked ashamed. "That…that's going to change, Lassie. I'm…going to go check on the coffee."

He was back in a few minutes with two cups, one of which he handed to Lassiter. "Three creams, four sugars, right? Highly unhealthy, but since I'd guess it's been at least three months since you've eaten a cream horn or a cheese danish then you've earned yourself a little naughtiness."

"Actually I've been taking my coffee black for a couple of years now, but I don't mind."

"Really? I remember that now, but I would have guessed that resolution to last maybe two days, tops."

"I keep my resolutions, Spencer. And who are you to lecture me about healthy eating habits? When is the last time you went a full day without eating something deep fried, smothered in cheese, or composed predominately of refined sugar?"

"Well, I haven't eaten anything like that _today."_

"The day isn't over, Spencer. What do you think we should have for dinner?"

"I don't know, I was thinking maybe chili cheese dogs and onion rings, and fried ice cream for dessert."

"Game, set, match."

"_Gaaa!"_ Shawn put his mug down on the coffee table. Lassiter glared at him briefly, then picked it up and slid a coaster under it. "Wanna play Twenty Questions?"

Lassiter rolled his eyes. "Are you sure you wouldn't rather play Spin the Bottle or Truth or Dare?"

"Spin the Bottle sounds fun but a two-player game kind of takes the element of surprise out of it, Truth or Dare would work but you're not in condition to perform any major dares. I wouldn't say no to a rousing game of Mousetrap or Grape Escape if you've got them, though. Which is the better game, do you think? Sure, Mousetrap is a classic, but Grape Escape involves _scented Play-Doh, _so…"

"Spencer, what is your point, exactly?"

"That squashing, squishing, cutting, and gear-rolling clay Grape People has a profoundly cathartic effect and _may_ trump the tension and excitement of trapping plastic mice in a brightly colored Rube Goldberg machine."

Lassiter closed his eyes and counted slowly to twenty-seven. "I mean _why_ did you ask me to play Twenty Questions?" he said through his teeth.

"Well, not Twenty Questions, _really," _Shawn admitted. "More like Truth minus the Dare. Eye minus the Spy and plus a You."

"_Just_…tell me what the hell you want, Spencer."

"Peace in the Middle East. A steady girlfriend for Gus. A heaping bowlful of bananas foster. You, me, whipped cream and chocolate sauce. I'll leave the maraschino cherry decision up to you."

"Spencer, less than an hour ago you told me that you wanted to be mature…"

"No, Lhasa Apso, I said I wanted to be _more_ mature. I think I've succeeded admirably over the past few hours, but I still need an occasional outlet for my inner child. And bananas foster - do you know how to make that? The _original_ recipe, from Brennan's Restaurant in New Orleans."

"Actually, yes I do, but that's beside the point - and no, I _won't_ make it. Just tell me why the hell you want to play Twenty Questions, or whatever permutation thereof. Seems to me like that's kind of what we've been doing all along."

"What we've been doing is, I've been grilling _you_ for personal information and you have been reluctantly divulging it. Then when I try to give you the opportunity to grill _me_ you decide you prefer your questions baked."

"What?"

"Never mind. What I'm proposing is, we each ask each other twenty questions, about anything as innocuous as favorite songs to deep dark dirty secrets. You have to answer truthfully and when it's done, it's done - I won't pry into your life for any more information you don't care to share on your own hook."

Lassiter fixed him with his best Interrogation Glare. "Ten questions."

"Thirty," Spencer countered.

"Spencer, why do you inevitably insist on going exactly the wrong direction in any negotiation? Just for that, _five_ questions."

"Fifteen."

"Nope. Five or none."

"Okay, Grumpy McGee, five questions," Shawn pouted. "But I hope you realize you just cut out all of my innocuous questions so I'm going to have to jump right to the deep dark dirty secrets. You go first."

"Okay then, Mr. Spencer, tell me: _Were_ you the one who ran up my room service bill at the Hotel de la Plaza?"

Shawn immediately wished he hadn't started this game. "Y…yes…" he admitted.

"I knew it. You owe me sixteen hundred _bucks_, Spencer."

"Do I still get to ask a question?" Shawn asked in a small voice.

Lassiter leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest. "Yeah, go ahead."

"How did you break your collarbone?"

Lassiter blinked. _"That's _your deep dark dirty secret?" he asked.

"Well, you never told anyone - and I mean _anyone _- and I never did manage to suss out the truth myself, so…yeah."

"I fell off my horse."

"You have a horse."

"I have a horse, and if that was your second question then you've only got three more."

"Did my voice go up at the end?"

"_That _was your second question."

"You didn't answer it, so it doesn't count. It was rhetorical, anyway. Okay, your turn."

"Okay…how exactly did you learn…or rather, how did Henry _teach_ you…to see everything there is to see in a crime scene in a matter of seconds _and _come to some sort of working conclusion about what you see, regardless of whether that conclusion seems like a wild ass guess?"

"Are you sure that's only one question? Because it feels like three or four."

"It's one question, but it's the only one I want answered so we'll count it for four if you like."

"Aw man, way to suck all the fun out of this. Okay, but if I let you get away with that then there's going to have to be some other kind of sucking, later. To answer your…questions, then…he drilled me. Endlessly. Throughout my entire childhood. Every day, every minute, every second. Every game of hide and seek had to be played like a police training exercise, every little freaking childhood game I played with Gus had to be imbued with some intensive lesson. He was…freaking…omnipotent. He somehow managed to hold down a full-time job as a police officer _and then _a police detective while at the same time completely running every aspect of my young life. He came to school on every single Career Day, made it to every single Science Fair and school play, led my eagle scout troupe, he coached my Little League team…he was _there. _Endlessly, painfully _there, _and I was…counting freaking _hats_ the whole time."

"…Counting hats?"

"It was one of his favorite exercises. He'd take me out to eat somewhere and if I wanted dessert I had to earn it. Close my eyes and tell him exactly how many hats were in the restaurant, _and_ describe them."

"I see."

"Now I get my four questions sequentially."

Lassiter sighed. "Fire away."

"Okay, question number one of four: Are you jealous of my relationship with my father?"

"Specifically _your_ relationship with _your_ father? Not in the least. Father-son relationships in general? Maybe a little. Maybe a lot, actually. But I shouldn't, because I was actually fairly lucky. I may not have had a decent father but there always seemed to be a father _figure_ around when I really needed it."

"Okay then, question two of four: What is your _other_ memory of one-on-one time with your father?"

Lassiter blinked. "What are you talking about?"

"You said that you had 'maybe two memories.' You shared more than enough of the disturbing one. What was the other?"

"Oh. Well. It's not actually a specific moment _per se_…"

"Spill, Lassidophilus."

"He played the banjo. Well, _plays, _probably, but I haven't heard it since I was eight or nine, maybe."

"That may be more disturbing than the whiskey and leather memory."

"Hey, he was _good_. I just remember that the very few times he was _home _and _sober_…he'd sit in the living room and bring out his banjo and sing."

"What would he sing?"

"Is that question three of four?"

"Come _on, _Lassie."

"He'd sing the kind of songs you would expect of a banjo player, Spencer. Old stuff, Stephen Foster stuff. Country songs, bluegrass."

"Okay, _here's _question three of four: Which was your favorite?"

"'The Battle of New Orleans.'"

"Wow, didn't even have to stop and think about it. Question four of four and we're done: Josey Wales or Rooster Cogburn?"

"The _movies, _or the characters?"

"Characters."

"John Wayne or Jeff Bridges?"

"Wayne."

"Don't make me make that choice, Spencer."

"Fair enough. Well. I _believe _you promised to make me some bananas foster."

"I believe I didn't."

"I've heard it both ways."

"You most certainly have not."


	10. Chapter Nine: 'Til Tomorrow

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Psych or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other Psych-Os like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **M+

**Spoilers: **Through season six episode nine, "Neil Simon's Lover's Retreat"

**WARNING: **Shassie, meaning full-on homosexual Shawn/Lassiter angst and occasional explicitness.

**A/N: **The long-awaited appearance of Gus! For honestly, what is Shawn without Gus? A ping without a pong. A ding without a dong. A stripper without a pole. More than a boy, but less than a man. And I think I got lost in the imagery there for awhile, but you get my point. Also, a more-than-cameo appearance of Juliet, even though it's a telephone conversation!

**Chapter Nine: 'Til Tomorrow**

Gus arrived half an hour into _Airplane!, _bearing more luggage than Shawn could possibly have required if he intended to stay at Lassiter's house for a year. He looked relieved to see his friend alive and whole when Shawn opened the door.

"Gus! Come on in, come on in. Maybe if you add your pouty pleading face to mine we can get Lassie to break down and make us some bananas foster. Come on, show me the Famous Burton Doe Eyes."

"I'm not making Doe Eyes at Lassiter, Shawn, but bananas foster does sound good. Is that…are you guys watching _Airplane?"_

"We just finished _Top Secret_. Gus - would you believe it? Lassiter has _four full episodes _of MST3K on DVD and VHS - _'Manos:' the Hands of Fate, Santa Claus Conquers the Martians, Mitchell, _and _The Brain That Wouldn't Die - Mystery Science Theater 3000: The Movie_, and _Mystery Science Theater 3000: The Shorts! _Isn't that awesome?"

"Yeah, that's great. You actually watched _Top Secret _without me?" Gus said. He sounded hurt.

"Well, I promised Lassie I wouldn't pry into any more of his personal information, and he wouldn't make me any bananas foster, so we had to do _something_, and pretty much everything else he owns stars either Clint Eastwood or John Wayne. Or Rae Dawn Chong, but I couldn't cheat on you like _that."_

"Okay, I forgive you, but you're going to have to start _Airplane! _over again. Your _essentials_, sir." He dumped the three large bags he carried at Shawn's feet. "Is that…are you wearing one of Lassiter's shirts?"

Shawn looked down and fingered the zipper of the black sweatshirt he wore. "Yeah. Well, see, I felt kind of skeevy wearing the same shirt as yesterday, and then I spilled clam chowder on myself at lunch, so Lassie let me borrow his hoodie. Took a lot of persuading, too, which was kind of mean since I washed it for him today."

"You and Lassiter seem to be getting…close," Gus said, with a suspicious glare.

"At times over the past twenty-four hours, particularly over breakfast this morning, you couldn't slip a piece of paper in between us."

"I believe that constitutes TMI, Shawn. I don't _need_ those kind of mental images. _Whatever _the hell you meant by it."

"What do you think I meant by it?"

"I don't even want to contemplate, Shawn."

"But you're contemplating. I can tell. You're contemplating your little heart out. Come on, if we can't get bananas foster I do know that there's popcorn in the pantry just begging to be consumed while _'Larry's getting larger!'" _Shawn cried, and poked Gus in the stomach. Gus giggled like the Pilsbury Doughboy.

"Don't reveal my weaknesses in front of Lassiter, Shawn," Gus said severely, once he recovered.

"Lassie's in the _nice_ room, he couldn't see. Besides, Lassie's already aware of your weaknesses. Dead bodies, hot women with low expectations, cupcakes, and porn."

"_Not _cupcakes and porn, Shawn."

"Well, not at the same time, silly. You need a free hand."

"Not funny, Shawn."

"Tell that to _ventriloquist extraordinaire _Jeff Dunham and his suitcase full of wacky little friends. All of which, funnily enough, have pretty much the same voice."

"Gee. I wonder why."

"As do I, Gus. I think they're all secretly related. Although it is hard to imagine Achmed the Dead Terrorist sending Walter a Father's Day card."

"They're ventriloquist's dummies, Shawn. Dunham does the voices for _all _of them."

"That's ludicrous, Gus - I've seen them on stage together and Dunham's lips never move."

"That's kind of the point of ventriloquism, Shawn."

"Silly, gullible Guster. Come on, Shawnie wants popcorn and a little Leslie Nielsen. 'Good night, sweet Frank Drebben. Flights of Nordbergs sing thee to thy rest.'"

"I hear that."

Gus followed him into the "nice room." "Is that…is that a sword on the wall?"

"It's long, pointy, rather sharp, and made of metal, Gus - it's either a sword or Doctor Doom's nose," Shawn said.

"Doctor Doom wears a mask because his face is scarred, Shawn. He doesn't have a metal nose."

"But the mask is made of metal and has a nose on it, correct? Correct. Don't ruin my refs with pedantics…pedanticism…_nit-pickery_, man." Shawn flounced out of the room into the kitchen.

"Hello, Guster. Make yourself at home…apparently," Lassiter said.

"Hello, Detective Lassiter. Thank you for…er…allowing Shawn to invite me into your lovely…and well-defended home. I, uh…I hope you are well? Or rather…er…better than when I last…saw you…in the hospital with tubes in your nose and an IV port in your arm."

"Thank you, Guster, for the reminder. Yes, I'm _considerably_ better than I was with tubes in my nose and an IV port in my arm. Funny, isn't it? Well, sit down already - you're making me nervous, and you know how nervous _you_ get when I get nervous."

Gus sat down in the armchair immediately. Shawn came back in from the kitchen with a bag of microwave popcorn in hand and perched himself on the couch right next to Lassiter. Gus eyed the seating arrangements, got up, and squeezed himself into the narrow space between the two men.

"Guster, if you end up in my lap my Glock and I will have a word with you outside," Lassiter said crossly.

Shawn ceded space with ill humor. "Yeah, Gus, geez - what are you trying to do, protect my honor? All you need is a moustache and you'd be my fat, ugly old _duenna."_

"If a chaperone is needed, Burton Guster is the man for the job," Gus said determinedly.

"So you _have_ been contemplating what I meant when I said - "

"Don't go there, Shawn. Once was enough. Once was _too much."_

"Now Gus, you know as well as I do that once is never enough with a man like you. Now, _eight? _Eight is Enough. Nineteen and counting? That's far, far too much. The Duggars must be stopped."

"You know that's right."

"I don't want to know what you said that was too much, Spencer," Lassiter said. "But Guster, let me assure you that there is absolutely no reason to fear that I will _compromise his honor."_

"I'm not worried about _you_, Lassiter - I'm worried about _him. _He makes…bad decisions."

"_There's _the understatement of the millennium."

"Foul - you can't call 'understatement of the millennium' when the millennium is only twelve years old," Shawn cried. "There has to be a maximum of two hundred years remaining _in_ the millennium before nominations can be made. And Gus, don't start up the nit-pickery again by pointing out that the millennium is actually _eleven_ years old, or whatever."

"It _is_, Shawn."

"_Ap ap ap ap ap!" _Shawn shouted, and stuffed a handful of popcorn in Gus's mouth. "Start the darned movie over from the beginning."

Lassiter brought up the DVD menu and restarted the movie from the opening credits. The airplane cut through the cloudbank to the _Jaws_ theme one more time. Shawn offered the bag of popcorn to Lassiter, who refused curtly. Gus finished swallowing his unwanted mouthful and grabbed a handful himself. If, over the course of the next few hours, Lassiter felt like an uninvited guest in his own home then there was an aura of fate about it - sometimes it seemed less like Shawn and Gus were unrelated brothers and more like they were two halves of the same rather self-absorbed person. Sometimes - _often_, actually - he wondered why Gus put up with so much from Shawn, continually being marginalized and shunted aside. Guster had brains, talent, good manners, a good if prosaic career…well, Lassiter supposed Shawn brought a little _adventure_ into his life but it hardly seemed to make up for all the trouble he caused. But then, what did Lassiter know about lifelong friendship? It's not like he had anything to compare it to.

Eventually he got tired of paying silent witness to the endless hardcore comedy routine that was Shawn plus Gus, and tired, too, of contemplating the increase in his grocery bill by the end of the night as they decimated his supply of anything resembling a snack without so much as a "by-your-leave." He slipped away halfway through their screening of the _MST3K_-enhanced version of the horrendous Joe Don Baker "classic" _Mitchell _and went to bed, without giving so much as a thought to the idea of dinner. He doubted either man even noticed his departure, or that they would care if they did.

The telephone rang at a little after eight o'clock, and a glance at the Caller ID showed O'Hara's name and number. Even though he knew who was calling he still answered with his surname. People pretty much all sounded alike to him over the telephone, so how else could one know for certain who was answering the call?

"Hey, Carlton - it's Juliet," O'Hara said. Even though he suspected she'd just got home from work - long days and double shifts were common for both of them at the SBPD, and she was probably pulling a _lot _of overtime working with no partner, just a Uniform on call in his or her own squad car to answer a demand for backup - she sounded as upbeat and perky as ever. "How are you? I heard you got some shooting practice in yesterday." It was hard to tell through the bubbly tone whether or not she was teasing him.

"Shooting practice? No. I was making _pineapple juice."_

She laughed. "We're going to have to find an outdoor shooting range that will let you fire a fifty-caliber, because I want to try that gun," she said. "Do you think I could handle the recoil?"

"Oh yeah, sure you could. It's pretty intense, but you're strong and you know guns. You might not like it much, though - I don't have the molded grip so it's not a tremendously comfortable fit to the hand, and yours is a lot smaller than mine."

"I've still got to fire it once, all the same," she said. "I'll even reload the rounds for you."

He laughed. "That would be great, because I hate reloading and ammo for that thing costs a fortune. Makes me wish I collected my shells yesterday, you could reload those, too."

"I still can. Buzz held on to them."

The smile fell of his face at mention of the young officer, and not because of the shooting range incident. "Good old McNab…he's always there when you need him," he said. _And when you don't, _he thought.

"Well, your neighbors haven't called in to report any shooting, so can I assume Shawn is still alive? I do know you have a lot of sharp objects…"

"Spencer is alive. He and Guster are raiding my kitchen cabinets and watching my television as we speak."

"Is he doing you more harm or good, being there with you?"

Lassiter gave the question the due consideration it deserved. "I'd say he's helping me out," he said, "while at the same time being as much of a nuisance and thorn in my side as he can. Overall though, I guess the needle is in the green. Mostly." It was true, but _no way _was he going to confess to his partner just what kind of thorn Spencer really was.

"Good. You tell him I said he'd better treat you right, or _I'll_ shoot _him_ repeatedly."

This blatant echo of his own words months ago to Spencer left him wondering just how much O'Hara already knew or guessed. There didn't seem to be much he could say except for a lame, "Thanks, O'Hara."

"Anyway, I'm glad you're okay and I'm glad Shawn is being…somewhat helpful. It's way too quiet around here without you, partner, so I need you back on your feet ASAP. Sitting in the driver's seat all the time feels like trying to write left-handed and don't have anyone to buy coffee for!"

He snorted. "The minute I'm back on full active you'll be back to complaining about never getting to drive and always having to buy the coffee."

She giggled. "Probably. But speaking of driving, you've got to tell me about that Sting Ray. I mean, what happened to the_ Fusion?"_

"Hated it. Sold it. Haven't replaced it yet."

"So where did the 'Vette come from?"

"Had it all the time."

"And you never said a word or let me have a ride. Asshat," she said.

"That's one of _my_ words, O'Hara."

"I plead over-exposure. And I still don't know exactly what it means."

"Ass-Haberdashery is the wave of the future. I'd buy stock if I were you, before it inflates."

Another giggle. Lassiter had never liked the sound of giggling, it set his teeth on edge, but O'Hara's didn't bother him, possibly due to the same sort of over-exposure _she_ was talking about, or because it was a subdued giggle rather than a high-pitched dog-howling screechy giggle.

"Anyway, the reason I called, other than wanting to know how you were, is that I've got this case that I think you'd find…interesting. Double-homicide. A head-scratcher, to say the least."

"No suspects?"

"Too many. For a quiet, long-time married couple with no enemies, there seem to be an awful lot of people with motive to see them dead."

"You've piqued my interest."

"Thought it would. Can I come by tomorrow? Maybe on my lunch break? 'Cause if the Chief knew I was involving you in police business at this point she'd probably blow a gasket and bust me back to walking a beat. And you _know_ that's torture in heels."

"You'd have to resign yourself to flats, O'Hara - I know that's almost impossible for you," he teased. "Yeah, stop by whenever. I'll…_ha! _I'll make bananas foster."

"Oo, sounds good. What brought that on?"

"Spencer's been bugging me about it almost all day. I strongly suspect he pre-scoped my supplies to know that I happen to have the rum and banana liqueur already. There's no way in hell I'm leaping to his whim but I'll make it for _you _and he can choke on it."

She laughed out loud. "I won't even ask why you happen to have banana liqueur handy."

"For bananas foster," he said blandly.

"You are an endless surprise, Carlton. All right, I'll see you then. 'Til tomorrow."

"See you then, O'Hara."


	11. Chapter Ten: Howdy Partner

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Psych or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other Psych-Os like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **M+

**Spoilers: **Through season six episode nine, "Neil Simon's Lover's Retreat"

**WARNING: **Shassie, meaning full-on homosexual Shawn/Lassiter angst and occasional explicitness.

**Chapter Ten: Howdy Partner**

Lassiter was awakened at four thirty in the morning by the ringing telephone. He was alone in his bed, Spencer was nowhere to be seen. He answered the phone in his customary fashion.

"Hey, Carl - it's your sister."

_You would think_, he pondered, _that a woman who grew up on the West Coast would understand the time difference from New Jersey._ "Hey Janie. I take it I'm forgiven, then?"

"It's been seven days, hasn't it?" she laughed. "But seriously, how are you?"

"I'm good. A few more days and they'll take the last of the stitches out, and then I should be able to go back to light duty soon thereafter. How's yer little key store?"

"What _about_ my little kiester?" she joked along with him. "It's a _photography studio_, Carlton, and it's doing pretty good, all things considered. Graduation photos and wedding videos are always something people will spring for, regardless of how bad the economy is. Uh…have you heard from Lyle?"

"Janie, I haven't heard from our baby brother in eleven years. Why?"

"He…he called me. Four days ago. Apparently he stopped by an internet café somewhere and Googled you…"

"And found out I got ventilated. Hmph. I'm surprised he considered that reason enough for a check-in."

"He was really upset, Carl. I think he thought you were…"

"Dead."

"Yeah."

"Was he upset _before_ or _after_ you told him I was still alive?"

"_Carlton."_

"All right, all right. Did he happen to mention where in the inner solar system he _is?"_

"New Zealand, for the moment. He…asked me if he should come see you."

"And what did you tell him?"

"I told him I couldn't make that decision for him."

"I bet that went over well. How's about a change of subject? How's Raul treating you?"

"Like gold."

"Uh huh. How's Petey?"

Her tone changed instantly to the proud crowing of a happy mother. "Oh, he's just wonderful. He's in the accelerated program at school and doing a fantastic job. He's decided that he wants to be a veterinarian and I'm pretty sure he means it. _And_…he's got a _girlfriend," _she squealed dramatically.

Lassiter chuckled. "Is it serious?"

"Well, at fifteen who knows? But they are absolutely adorable together. Oh - here he comes. Peter, do you want to talk to your uncle for a minute?"

"Yeah! Gimmie!" Lassiter heard the muffled words. In a moment the clear voice of his nephew spoke to him from across an entire continent. "Hey, Uncle Carlton - how's the war wounds? Are you gonna have scars?"

"_Peter!" _he heard his sister scold.

Lassiter laughed. "Yeah, Petey-Bird, I'm probably going to have some pretty gnarly scars."

"Wicked! Hey, I'd love to hang out and talk awhile but I've got to get to school or I'll be late. But we can Skype each other later - I'll email you all my info."

"Okay, sounds good," Lassiter chuckled, "but you'd also better email me about just what, exactly, Skype might be."

Peter laughed. "I'll tell you all about it. Later, Uncle Carlton."

"Later, Big Pete."

Janie got back on the line. "You should see him, Carl - he's the size of a Clydesdale."

"Have you got him delivering Budweiser?"

She snickered. "He'd fit right in with an eight-horse hitch."

"Next time I manage to get out that way I'll bring him an apple and some carrots."

"He was really scared for you," she said, in a more serious tone. "He wanted to come with me when I flew out to see you in the hospital. If we'd had money enough for the airfare I would've brought him."

"I'm just as glad you didn't. We'll get together when I'm healed up."

"I'm going to hold you to that, you know. It's been more than _four years _since the last time you made it out here."

"I know. I'm sorry. You know me, I can't pry myself away from the damn badge for a minute. I've been driving my Chief nuts with trying to get back to work early."

"Now you stop that. You are not healthy enough for that yet."

"That's what she said. Don't worry, I've accepted my fate now - although I really _don't_ see any reason why they couldn't stick me behind a desk."

"All right. I've got to get to the studio - I've got a couple coming in for a Valentine's Day portrait in an hour - so I'll call you later, okay?"

"What, no _Skype?" _he teased.

She giggled. "I don't know what that is, either," she admitted. "Okay, bye-bye, Carl."

"Bye, Janie." He hung up the phone and went back to sleep. He was awakened at a more reasonable eight forty-eight to see Shawn Spencer standing penitently in his bedroom doorway.

"Okay, what did you break?" he asked.

Spencer took a hesitant step into the room. "My promise, I think," he said. "I…realized that Gus and I kind of cut you out of the evening when you left without saying anything. I'm sorry about that, I never meant to make you feel like you weren't included…"

"It's okay, Spencer, I know how it is with you and Guster. You feed off each other."

"Yeah…" He scuffed his toes on the carpet. "You hungry? I could make you breakfast. I'm only good with French toast and pancakes, though - fair warning."

"No, I'm fine."

"You need to eat, Lass - you didn't have any dinner."

"I'll fix something later. Right now I think I'll just be lazy for awhile."

"Oh. Okay. I, uh…I slept in the guest bedroom last night, in case you wondered."

"I didn't."

Spencer's face blanched. "Oh. Right. Well, uh…_I_ was wondering…if you'd like some company _now?"_

Plunge headfirst back into the insanity of the past two days, or enjoy another hour or so of peaceful solitude? "I'd rather not, Spencer."

"Oh. All right." The man turned to go, shoulders hunched, head hanging.

"O'Hara is coming by sometime this afternoon, to talk about that case she's working," Lassiter called out.

"Oh, really? That's good. Yeah, it'll be nice to see Jules."

"I'll make bananas foster when she gets here."

"Really? _Sweet!" _The man perked instantly and fairly skipped back to the guest room. Lassiter chuckled despite himself. He did wonder briefly if any of his small supply of ice cream and bananas had survived the night.

He lay in bed as long as he could stand it and finally got up and managed to shower, shave, and dress without Spencer demanding to join him. A quick peek in the guest room revealed that the man was sprawled in an unseemly manner across the narrow guest bed, mouth open and snoring softly. Lassiter went to the kitchen, which he expected would be a disaster area. It was actually quite clean, no trace of the evening's depredations remained. That didn't mean it was _Shawn _who cleaned up, of course, it was much more like Guster to want to tidy up his mess before he left. Guster was considerate. Shawn was…thoughtless. Shawn was like an eight year old who would have to be consistently reminded to clean his room, and who would pout about it when you did. Which just illustrated how insane it was to think he was actually supposed to be considering the prospect of a long-term relationship with the man_._

Shawn was inconsiderate, immature, invasive as hell…and he just couldn't see that ever changing. If he couldn't grow up for a lady as incredible as O'Hara he'd _certainly_ never do it for Lassiter, right? Right. But even as he thought it he berated himself for it. That kind of uncharitable pessimism was one of the biggest things on that list of self-reflective faults he was trying to change, and one of the hardest hold-outs. _Of course _Shawn could change, if he really wanted to. Maybe he even _would. _But did he believe Spencer's implication that only _he_, Lassiter, could effect that change? No, he didn't. Nor did he think it was his responsibility to do so. So it seemed he had a pretty major decision to make: Did he actually pursue this strange romantic entanglement Spencer was pushing for, or did he break it off now before things went too far? And why the _hell_ did that seem like such a hard choice to make?

Maybe this was his own unique kind of rebound mistake. Marlowe's breakup, while not unexpected, hurt him in a profoundly fundamental way. Whether she knew it or not, he'd gone out on a pretty big, shaky personal limb for her, not that he could blame her for ending it. Trying to love a cop was probably the only thing on earth harder than trying to love a convict, because after all, a convict's sentence was usually of limited duration. A cop's was pretty much for life.

Maybe this was even some sort of mid-life crisis. Shawn's immaturity and carefree attitude had a certain appeal to it even as it drove him up the wall, because after all, hadn't Lassiter been bearing grownup responsibilities practically since birth? He could admit to himself that he had, on occasion, considered simply pulling up stakes and disappearing, Lyle-style, for parts unknown. Except for a couple of trips to New Jersey to see Janie and her family, and a handful of work-related conferences, he'd never been out of southern California. He had a definite attraction to, and _envy_ of, people who simply went where they wanted to go when they wanted to go there. Maybe coming so close to death was making him rethink his life.

He allowed himself to ponder the _what ifs _for a moment. If the doctors hadn't worked quite so hard or so efficiently to save him, what would have happened? Well, he'd be dead - whatever _that_ meant. There would have been a funeral, with a long, slow procession of cruisers following the hearse, cherries flashing but sirens respectfully silenced. There would have been a line or two of stone-faced officers in their dress uniforms at the grave site, and a salute of arms. Then the flag would be taken off his casket and folded into a cocked hat, and someone - the Chief, probably, or O'Hara - would hand it to…who? Lulu? His mother?

His mother. His heart gave a guilty lurch as he realized he had forgotten to call her back. He toyed briefly with the notion of simply letting her stew for awhile longer, but even as he thought it he knew he couldn't do that to her. Neither of her daughters were currently "talking" to her, so there was little chance she knew that her youngest son had resurfaced, however briefly. He dialed the phone and half-hoped she wouldn't answer. It would either mean she was angry with him again and treating him to the Seven Day Silent Treatment, or that she'd decided the prospect of having an Ass Pirate for a son was just too much and committed seppuku. The latter fear could be easily assuaged with a quick call to the Carpinteria PD for a welfare check.

The whole thing was rendered moot on the second ring. "Carlton, honey…is that you?" she answered. She still sounded as strangely subdued as she had in her last telephone message.

"Yeah, Ma, it's me."

"Oh, thank the Lord. I was so worried - I didn't sleep a wink all night."

"Yeah, I'm sorry about that, Ma. I got your message but I put off calling you, then I went to bed early and forgot."

_Now_ she would snipe at him, either with half-baked accusations about what he'd been doing in bed to make him forget, or more justifiable griping about his thoughtlessness. But she surprised him.

"That's okay, baby, I'm just glad you called, is all."

"Ma, I just want you to know, _nothing actually happened _between me and Shawn." _Except a surprising amount of tongue-play and an incomplete circle-jerk, but there's no way _you _need to know that, Ma._ "He's a moron and a goof and a little bit of an asshole, but he doesn't mean any harm, he's just thoughtless as hell and he mistakes it for humor."

"Do you…_love_…him?" she asked hesitantly.

He let out a gusty breath. "I _like_ him, Ma, kind of against my better judgment, but I think he's asking me for something I can't give him."

"Oh."

"Lyle called," he said suddenly, eager to change the subject.

"Oh really?"

"Yeah. Well - he didn't call _me_, he called Janie. He's in New Zealand, apparently, and he's _alive_, so that's…that's good news."

"Yes. Yes, it is." He heard her snuffle back tears. "I just…I tried, you know? I knew I wasn't good at the whole…'mother' thing, but I tried. Now my children don't speak to me, and I can't blame them. Last night, when you didn't call, I was so scared…I thought I'd never hear from you again. I couldn't take it, baby. All my children, you're the only one who stayed."

The One Who Stayed. He remembered the poem, about the last child remaining in old Hamlin town after the Piper piped the others away. It was written by Shel Silverstein, a poet he didn't come to until he was too grown up to appreciate much of his humor, but _that_ poem had resonated with him, and stuck in his memory over the many years since he'd first stumbled upon it. Back then he'd had it memorized but now he could remember only the last few lines: "I cannot say I did not hear that sound, so haunting hollow. I heard. I heard. I heard it clear. I was afraid to follow." _I was afraid to follow…_

He was the one who'd always known how to "handle" their mother, and the others had always expected him to do it. He was also the one who knew how to redirect their father's drunken ire from the others onto himself, and he'd always done that, too. At the time he'd thought of it as his responsibility as the "big brother," and maybe even as the first step toward becoming a policeman - _protect and serve_, after all. Now he wondered if maybe what it had _really_ been was the first step toward turning him into an adult who didn't know how to live for himself. Now he was setting himself up to be the family peacemaker _again, _but at least this time he knew why he was doing it. It was _his choice._

"I know, Ma. I know it was hard, and I know you did the best you could. We _all_ know that, we're just…Irish. We get mad at each other too easily."

"I love you, Carlton," she blurted. "No matter what."

"I know, Ma. I love you, too."

She blew her nose honkingly. "Thank you for that, Sweetheart. Well, I'll let you go. Bye-bye, baby."

"Bye, Ma."

Shawn stumbled in about half an hour later as Lassiter was pouring his second cup of coffee, bleary-eyed and still mostly asleep. "Morning," Lassiter said ironically, after a glance at the microwave proved it was ten minutes past eleven o'clock.

"Mmmblrghh," Shawn mumbled incoherently.

"Coffee?"

"Coffee. Yes. Coffee's good."

Lassiter poured him a cup. "I take it you're _not _a morning person?"

"I was doing so _good _these past few days," Shawn whined. "Maybe I'm in pineapple smoothie withdrawal."

"Well, I'm not an enabler so if you want to feed that addiction you'll have to do it on your own." Lassiter sat back down.

"Did you get anything to eat?" Shawn asked.

"I had a bowl of cereal."

"I…screwed the pooch last night, didn't I?"

Lassiter spit out half a sip of coffee and choked back his laughter. "I'm sorry…_what?"_

"I messed up. I made you feel left out and unwanted - in your own house, no less - and now you've rethought this whole crazy situation."

"I'm _rethinking_ this whole crazy situation, Spencer," Lassiter admitted. "It's not as a result of last night. It's a situation that requires a lot of thought. I know all your arguments in favor of this…relationship, but I need a little space to figure out my _own_ reasoning."

"Okay, I understand. Just…keep this in mind while you're thinking, all right?" He stood up, placed his hands on Lassiter's face, and kissed him. He was a hell of a good kisser, Lassiter had to admit it, and his full lips were pretty much indistinguishable from a woman's when Lassiter's were pressed against them.

_Ned Beatty beware,_ he thought, _but he's got a _real_ purty mouth…_

The doorbell rang and the kiss broke. "It's probably O'Hara," Lassiter said.

"Sit still, I'll get it," Spencer said. Lassiter was a little worried about it, but he merely nodded assent.

"Jules! Hey! Welcome to _Casa de Lassie," _Spencer gushed as he threw open the door.

"Hey, Shawn. Hi, Carlton," Juliet greeted, and stepped inside. She whipped off her aviators and favored both men with her usual sunny smile. There didn't seem to be any post-breakup tension between her and Shawn, and that was a relief.

"O'Hara, good to see you," Lassiter said. "Make yourself at home."

"You know, except for that party I think this is the first time I've ever been in your house, Carlton," she said wonderingly. "Well, at least when it wasn't a crime scene. Mind if I look around a little?"

"Knock yourself out. It'll take a few minutes to make…er…'lunch.'" He got up and gathered the ingredients and equipment necessary to make the famous dessert.

The more formidable of his two fireplaces was the one in the main living room. O'Hara inspected the few objects on the mantle with a visitor's eye rather than a detective's. "What a pretty vase," she said. "…Oh…it's a…funeral urn…"

"Yeah, those are the ashes of my first partner," Lassiter said.

"You…have the ashes of your first partner?" she asked incredulously, and with some apparent alarm.

"Yeah. Well, he _lived _with me, you know. Blanket hog. He woke me up every morning with the sloppiest damn kiss, and his _breath? _Eesh, it could have knocked out a bull elephant. Victoria never stopped complaining about having to share the bed three ways, either."

"…Kiss?" Her blue eyes were wide and shocked. He decided he couldn't string her along any more.

"He was a German Shepherd, O'Hara," he said with a wink. "K-9 Officer Audie Doggie, best damn partner I ever had, present company excepted."

"Jesus, Carlton, you really had me going for a minute there."

"I know."

"You rat, you did that on purpose."

"Of _course."_

He mixed up the sauce ingredients and stirred the mixture until it was ready, then added the banana liqueur and the banana slices. He let them cook for a bit, then added the rum and tipped the pan to ignite it. A few moments later when the flames subsided he spooned bananas and sauce onto three bowls of vanilla ice cream.

"Bravo, Chef Carlton," Juliet said. "I had my suspicions you were secretly a Foodie."

Lassiter shrugged. "I like to eat, and I'm too cheap to eat out all the time, _ergo_ I taught myself to cook."

"Frugal, Carlton. You're frugal," Juliet corrected.

"That's what I said, O'Hara. I'm too cheap."

Spencer's mouth was too full of bananas foster to contribute to the conversation, for which Carlton was just as glad.

"So what's this case you've got, O'Hara?" Lassiter asked.

O'Hara swallowed a spoonful of ice cream and brought out a thick file folder. "Have you been following the Pederman murders on the news?"

"Bits and pieces."

"That's the way we found 'em, all right," O'Hara said. "Take a look."

He pulled the file towards himself and flipped it open. _Double homicide and bananas foster_, he thought. _Just another day in the life…_


	12. Chapter Eleven: DH & BF

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Psych or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other Psych-Os like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **M+

**Spoilers: **Through season six episode nine, "Neil Simon's Lover's Retreat"

**WARNING: **Shassie, meaning full-on homosexual Shawn/Lassiter angst and occasional explicitness. Further warning: may not be as Shassie as I expected it would be when I started out. Could be a little Lassiet creeping in there, because I think Shawn needs to see he doesn't have a lock on Lassie's affections. It'll go in the direction it wants to - I'm just holding the pen, so to speak, the story's in charge.

**Chapter Eleven (Not Going Bankrupt): Double Homicide and Bananas Foster**

Lassiter read through the detail-heavy police file in his usual meticulous fashion as he absently spooned down the occasional mouthful of bananas foster. He didn't bother with the witness statements - reading through _that _portion of the file would take all day, so O'Hara would just have to fill him in on the salient points. Finally he closed the cover on the gruesome images of the middle-aged man and woman found hacked _and_ shot to death in their bed. "It looks kind of personal, doesn't it? Either that or it's a major psychopath."

"So you begin to see the difficulty I'm facing. It's either someone with a _major_ vendetta, or someone completely random."

"You said you've got a lot of suspects?"

She nodded grimly. "Everyone we've talked to said that Carol and Brian Pederman didn't have an enemy in the world, but we've found quite a few. Starting with their seventeen year old daughter, Brianna."

"She did it," Shawn said suddenly. "Revenge for being named after cheese."

"She was named after her _father_, I suspect," Lassiter said severely. He turned back to O'Hara. "Alibi?"

"She was in bed upstairs, asleep. She woke up when she heard the shots, she says. Woody says the bodies were shot _post_-mortem, so it makes a certain amount of sense that the perp would be gone by the time she worked up the guts to come downstairs."

"She called 911?"

"Here's an interesting fact: no. She called the _police._ Says she thought you could get through faster that way."

"Hmm. GSR?"

"Negative. No blood spatter on her clothes or person, either."

"And yet she's still a suspect?"

"She is. She's the beneficiary of quite a large life insurance policy on each parent, and she's kind of acting more like she won the lottery than lost her family. Three days after the funeral she was out pricing luxury cars and her older relatives are all suspicious of her demeanor. _And_ the policies were instituted only a few weeks prior to the murders."

"You think she could have hired someone to take her parents out?"

"I think it's possible. I don't like to think that way of a teenaged girl, but…"

"But that's the job. Who else has motive to kill, aside from the daughter?"

"Well, there are implications of infidelity. The husband apparently had a fling some time ago with a former coworker, who has since become something of a stalker. She lives out of state, we're coordinating efforts with local police to track her down. _And_ there's a pretty solid rumor that the wife was sleeping with one of _her_ coworkers, a man named Darren Shulter. He's married to Abigail Shulter, a woman who has several prior arrests for domestic violence - either one of them makes for a viable suspect. Of course Shulter denies there's any truth to the rumor that he and Carol were having an affair, but her cell phone records certainly show an awful lot of calls to and from his number for a friendship. We're checking their alibis but they look pretty solid so far."

"Curiouser and curiouser," Lassiter mused. "Did I see that the victims kept a dog?"

O'Hara nodded, and her eyes flashed triumphantly. "They sure did. Bailey, a very friendly but very protective rottweiler they keep in a nice chain link paddock in the side yard. He barks at anybody he doesn't know very well if they approach the house."

"Did anybody hear him bark on the night of the murders?"

"Nobody."

"And there was no sign of forced entry."

"Nope. There was a ladder leaning against the side of the house, though. Neighbors said Brian was doing some work on the upper windows, replacing rotten frames. Our perp could have entered that way easily enough, but it would have meant getting _very _close to that very large dog in his kennel."

"Well, either the dog was sleeping on the job or it was someone he was sufficiently familiar with. That seems to eliminate the random psycho possibility."

"That's what I was thinking. But it gets weirder: the FBI notified us a couple of days ago that they arrested the Pederman's loan officer for bank fraud, and he was found to have keys to their current residence in his possession _and_ was known to possess a Glock 22 which has mysteriously disappeared."

"Forensics determined that the shell casings found on scene were from a Glock 22."

"Exactly."

"Suggestive, but what motive would he have?"

"None, as far as we can tell. But he also doesn't have a decent alibi."

"Have you obtained the daughter's telephone records?"

"Yup - nothing overtly suspicious in them."

Lassiter leaned back and steepled his fingers in front of his face. "Quite a three-pipe problem, my dear O'Hara. I suppose the Federal boys are sitting on their loan officer?"

"They very kindly agreed to send us the results of their interrogation and crime scene photos of his residence."

"Nice of them. I hope you told them what they could do with _that_ offer?"

"I very kindly told them to shove it up their jurisdiction. I'm working a homicide, I don't give a damn about bank fraud right now. If he's got something to do with this murder, his ass is ours."

"What did they say to that?"

"They said that if the murder is related to the bank fraud then it's _their _bailiwick."

"Can they show a correlation?"

"Hell no."

"Then stick to your guns, O'Hara. In the meantime keep after these other suspects. There's nothing to be gained in failing to cover all angles."

"Do you think the daughter and bank loan officer could have been in cahoots?" Shawn asked. "Maybe she hired him to kill her parents in exchange for a part of the windfall?"

"Are you _sensing_ that, Shawn?" O'Hara asked.

Lassiter watched the fake psychic carefully. Shawn shot him a guilty look and said, "No, I'm not sensing anything. I guess I was just curious if there could be a connection."

"I've been looking into it," O'Hara said, "but so far there's nothing to suggest that they've ever even met each other."

"So our suspects seem to be one person with motive but no means, two people with motive but seemingly solid alibis, one person with means but no apparent motive, and an amorphous out-of-state entity we're not sure of yet."

"In essence, yes."

"If the Feds don't get a psych eval on this banker, _you_ call for one just as soon as they let you at him. I'd say do it anyway, just in case."

"My thoughts exactly."

He eyed her in the same way his criminology professors used to do when he was on the verge of understanding everything and just needed an extra push. "So O'Hara, tell me: based on what evidence you have now, who's your best suspect in the killing of the Pedermans?"

She took a deep breath and began to recite her thoughts in the same way countless students in countless classroom scenarios did it every day. "This was not a 'hit.' The murders were too intense, too gruesome, too personal to be professional, or even amateur hired killings. It's not the daughter. Her behavior has been suspicious but it's probably some sort of coping mechanism. Something could still break in the Shulter's alibis, but right now I'm thinking they're pretty well ruled out, too. The ex-girlfriend is still a possibility, I want her alibi and I want it _now_, but on the face of things I just don't think it's her - there's no evidence to suggest she'd ever been to the Pederman residence before and the dog would have barked at her. As to our larcenous loan officer, I just want to know two things: how the hell do you 'lose' a Glock 22 and why the hell do you have keys to a house that isn't yours?"

"Very good, O'Hara. I'd say you're definitely on the right track. I would be looking into any deeper connection between the Pedermans and their loan officer - maybe there was a love entanglement, or a secret financial partnership gone sour. Or maybe this guy is a nut job and the Pedermans were just desperately unlucky."

She smiled in evident relief. "I'm glad you agree with me, Carlton. There are a _lot _of interested parties telling me it's the daughter, and I just don't buy it."

"Neither do I. Unless you happen to find a cache of bloody clothes and the murder weapons hidden somewhere she had access to, I think you can pretty much rule her out at this point."

Shawn asked for and received permission to eat the last portion of bananas foster. Lassiter marked it down mentally under the category "Spencer Is Maturing - Pro." Of course, two helpings of bananas foster illustrated quite clearly why the man was slowly getting just a trifle chunkier as he aged and his metabolism slowed down.

"You're being so quiet, Shawn," O'Hara observed. "The spirits don't have anything to say about this case?"

He shrugged and swallowed another heaping spoonful of dessert. "You know how fickle the spirits can be, Jules," he said. "Right now they're saying you've got a handle on it and there's no need for me to interfere."

She looked surprised but pleased, and Lassiter couldn't blame her - Spencer not wanting to interfere was as rare and beautiful a thing as a shooting star.

"Well, it might be awhile before I can convince the Feds to relinquish my suspect but that's no reason why I can't start doing a little poking into this guy's life and movements around the time of the murders," O'Hara said. "Maybe I can find that long-lost Glock, wouldn't that be nice? I'm sure he'd like to be reunited with it."

Lassiter chuckled. "That would be fantastic but don't count on it, O'Hara. There's nine chances in ten he dumped it in water somewhere, and if he's smart he didn't let anybody see him do it."

"Still, someone somewhere sometime might have seen him acting out a little, and who knows where that might take me?"

"Exactly. Are you sure you needed _help _with this, O'Hara? Seems more like you were looking for validation."

She blushed. "Maybe a little, but really, until I talked it out with you I wasn't a hundred percent certain what I was supposed to do next. There are so many people chiming in their two cents and trying to get us to sign off on their ideas, I really needed to talk to someone sensible to help me clear things up in my mind."

"That's what partners are for."

Her smile was radiant, but her eyes sparkled with tears. "I'm just glad I've still got mine."

"Oh now none of that, O'Hara."

"No, wait a minute, I've got to," she protested. "I kind of stood back while you were in the hospital, because I know you hate the whole…'gather 'round the bedside and weep' thing, but Carlton, you can't imagine just how happy I am that you're going to be all right."

He probably could, actually, because he'd felt a similar relief after pulling her off the top of the clock tower two years ago.

"Well, anyway, I'd better go before they start calling for my location and I have to lie about why I'm here - I was serious when I said Chief Vick would probably bust me back to patrol for talking shop with you right now. We all want you _back, _but we want you back _healthy."_ She stood, and so did Lassiter. "Thanks for the bananas foster, it was absolutely delicious."

"You're welcome, O'Hara. Come on, I'll see you out."

He walked with her to the front door, where she turned to him again. "Thanks again, Carlton, for everything." She slipped her arms around his waist, stretched up, and planted a quick kiss on his cheek. Then she was gone, with a flip of her golden ponytail.

_She's about six tenths in love with you, you know, _Shawn's words echoed in his mind. He still found the very idea preposterous, but still…that was a highly unprofessional thing for her to do, regardless of her motivations. He'd have to have a serious talk with her about it, later.


	13. Interlude: Joy Buzzer

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Psych or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other Psych-Os like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **M+

**Spoilers: **Through season six episode nine, "Neil Simon's Lover's Retreat"

**WARNING: **Shassie, meaning full-on homosexual Shawn/Lassiter angst and occasional explicitness. Further warning: may not be as Shassie as I expected it would be when I started out.

**Interlude: Joy Buzzer**

O'Hara drove back to the station in a fine mood. It was a beautiful day, traffic was remarkably light for the hour, her tummy was full and the sweet-spicy taste of bananas foster still lingered on her tongue, and she knew now that her investigative instincts were sound and she had a good idea of where to go next. She pulled the Crown Vic into her reserved space and trotted into the building at a near-skip.

She smiled and nodded to Buzz McNab in the bullpen as she headed for her desk. He looked…troubled, which surprised her. She'd seen him in passing the afternoon before, and he'd looked a little worried, then, too. She stopped and turned to him. "Hey, Buzz - is something wrong?"

He hesitated. "Detective…do you have a minute? I'd kind of like to talk to you…" his eyes flicked to the conference room door "…privately."

"Sure, Buzz." She followed him into the conference room and he closed the door.

"Detective O'Hara…you know Detective Lassiter, right?"

She laughed. "Sure. Tall, skinny guy, blue eyes, crooked nose, big ears, something Shawn calls a 'strong Irish hairline,' whatever that means. Am I thinking of the right one?"

"No, I mean…you _know_ Detective Lassiter."

Her eyebrows shot into the stratosphere. "Not if we're talking _Biblically."_

"_No! _I…oh gosh, I'm really screwing this up. I mean you know him _well_, right? Like, you know what he likes and what he doesn't like, how he thinks and how he feels - I know he pretends he doesn't have feelings but that can't be true, right? I mean, there've got to be people he actually _likes_, right?"

"Er…of course, Buzz. Why do you ask?"

"Well I'm just confused, is all. I mean, I don't really know how to handle this. If it's true then I definitely want to be supportive, but if I'm wrong I don't want to_ insult _anyone, 'cause people could get _really_ ticked off about something like this and Detective Lassiter is kind of scary even when he's in a _good _mood…"

"Buzz. Wait. Stop. Now, take a _deep breath_, calm down, and start _at the beginning."_

He did. "Yesterday I was patrolling down West Montecito and I saw Detective Lassiter and Shawn Spencer sitting outside a little restaurant. It…really kind of looked like a date. There was a bouquet of roses on the table and everything."

Juliet ogled for a moment, then burst out laughing. "Oh, Buzz - I'm sure you didn't see what you think you saw. I mean, Carlton and…and…and _Shawn?" _She collapsed into a chair, helpless with mirth.

Buzz looked hurt. "You weren't there, Detective - you didn't _see_ them."

She composed herself with difficulty. "Okay, Buzz, I'm sorry. Just…tell me _exactly_ what you saw, and I'll try and help you sort this out."

He _told _her exactly what he saw, with the air of someone who had spent a lot of time thinking about it. By the time he finished, Juliet no longer felt the urge to laugh. She felt _another _urge, but she couldn't pinpoint the name of the feeling. Horror? That was about as close as she could come. Carlton and Shawn…_romantically involved? _With _each other? _That was a recipe for disaster, no question.

Buzz seemed to read some of her feelings from her face and pained silence. "Detective? Are you okay? I mean…you're not upset, are you? I figured it would be okay to talk to you about this, but believe me, I haven't told anyone else…except Francie. I told Francie. I shouldn't have told Francie, should I? Oh, I'm so dumb."

"No, Buzz, it's okay. You're not dumb. You're…you're smarter than I am, I think." Her head was reeling. "Look, I need a little time to think about this, okay? I'll…see what I can find out. Just…don't tell anyone else, all right?"

"Right. Thanks, Detective. You don't know how _relieved_ I am to get this off my chest." He left her, looking much happier, and she remained where she was at the conference table.

_I really wish you hadn't told _me_, Buzz_, O'Hara thought. Her whole nice day was ruined. She wondered just exactly _why_, though. If Carlton and Shawn actually _had_ something, unlikely as it seemed, shouldn't she be _happy_ for them? It couldn't be just a touch of…_jealousy_…coloring her feelings, could it? She was _over_ Shawn, had been getting over Shawn even while they were still dating, so that _couldn't _be it…unless…

But no. No, she wasn't even going to _consider_ the fact that it wasn't _Shawn_ she was jealous about. Carlton was her _partner, _a man she cared about, yes, but only as a friend and colleague…right? Right. So there was _no reason_, apart from concern over their _obvious _incompatibility and Carlton's temper, that she should feel so…so…

So much like crying.


	14. Chapter Twelve: Down on the Farm

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Psych or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other Psych-Os like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **M+

**Spoilers: **Through season six episode nine, "Neil Simon's Lover's Retreat"

**WARNING: **Shassie, meaning full-on homosexual Shawn/Lassiter angst and occasional explicitness. Further warning: may not be as Shassie as I expected it would be when I started out.

**A/N: **I notice my chapters are getting shorter and shorter. That's because I have no idea where I'm going with this thing anymore, I just know that somehow I'm still getting there. It's also because I have five thousand other ideas I'm working at the same time, which is not at all unusual for me. I also notice my chapter titles are getting dumber and dumber. What can I say? I've never been good with titles. I'm not good with writing relationships, either, which is why it is so very, VERY odd that I'm writing this in the first place.

**Chapter Twelve: How Ya Gonna Keep 'Em Down on the Farm (After They've Seen Paree?)**

"Jules kissed you."

Lassiter looked at Spencer and sat back down at the kitchen table. The man was staring into the bottom of his bowl of bananas foster, perfectly casual in a way that was blatantly obvious. "Yes, she did."

"Did you like it?"

"Why? Are you jealous?"

Shawn shrugged. "A little, maybe. I mean, well, _yeah, _actually. Jules is beautiful, smart, funny, courageous, beautiful…she doesn't annoy the hell out of you like I do, and she's…you know…_female. _That's kind of hard to compete with."

"Relax, Spencer, it was just a kiss."

"But that's not where it'll end," Shawn said darkly.

Lassiter sighed. "Look, nothing has or will ever happen between me and O'Hara. Frankly, Spencer, I don't think anything _should _have happened or should _continue_ to happen between the two of _us."_

Shawn dropped his spoon and jumped to his feet. His eyes were wide and panicked. "Lassie…you're…you don't mean that."

"I _do _mean that, Spencer. Come on, who are you trying to kid, anyway? There's no way in hell that I'm the _best_ you think you can do, whether you're looking to be with a man or a woman."

"Lassie, why would you say that?" Shawn pleaded.

"Because it's _true. _Look, Spencer, you're…hell, I don't _know _what you are, but _whatever_ you are you've proven again and again that you can get just about anybody on the face of the _earth_ to fall for you. _You don't need me."_

"I _do_ need you, Lassie, not because I couldn't _find_ someone else but because I don't _want _anyone else." He dropped to his knees beside Lassiter's chair and took his hands in both of his. "Lassie, you've got to believe me…_I love you."_

"That doesn't even make any _sense, _Spencer," Lassiter said. "Not one iota. I know you said you were…fighting your feelings the whole time we've known each other, but I still think you've gotten mixed up somehow. You _know_ what I'm like, Spencer, and I'm about as far from what _you're_ like as it is possible to be. I may be trying to change my life and the way I do things, but I'm not going to change _that much_, nor do I think I have to. And you're not going to change _that much_, either, no matter what you may promise."

"But I _will_, Lassie, I - "

"_Spencer," _Lassiter interrupted, "you won't. You can't. You _shouldn't_. Because I think that you're changing for _me_, or for O'Hara, or for whoever it is you think you want to spend the rest of your life with. _You can't do that_, Spencer. You have to change for _yourself_, not for someone else."

"So that's it, then?" Spencer asked quietly. "There's no chance at all?"

The naked pain in his eyes hurt Lassiter in spite of himself. "I really don't think so, Spencer," he said, though it pained him. "Certainly not right now. Probably never."

Shawn's expression hardened. "I don't believe that, Lassie, and I'm _going_ to prove you wrong."

"Just let it go, Spencer," Lassiter said wearily.

"_This _from a man who fought for almost _five years _to save his train wreck of a marriage. Tell me, Lassie, if our positions were reversed, would you 'just let it go?'"

Lassiter sighed deeply and told the truth. "No, Spencer. I'd fight."

Shawn smiled triumphantly. "Good. Now, I know I'm fighting against the _champion_ of hard-headedness, but _I_ can be damned stubborn, too, and I'm very, _very_ persuasive. All told, I think my chances are pretty good." He leaned forward and kissed Lassiter quite firmly on the lips. "I want you to know I'm not changing myself for _you," _he said. "I'm changing for _both of us. _We'll be good for each other, Lassie, you'll see. You'll make my life a little steadier and I'll make yours a little wilder."

"You've already done that," Lassiter said. "A lot of times, in ways I don't particularly care for. Such as, oh, say, 'outing' me to my mother without so much as a discussion."

Shawn winced. "I know. I know, that was…inexcusable. I don't blame you for being angry with me. It wasn't really a good way to start showing you that I could be trusted…hell, I probably _blew it completely _right then and there." He dropped his head onto Lassiter's shoulder and rocked back and forth a few times. "Oh Lassie, I'm sorry. God, I can be so goddamned _stupid._ No wonder you don't love me."

This left Lassiter in the uncomfortable position of having to soothe the man, despite the fact that he thought he hadn't been nearly hard enough with Shawn on the issue. "Look, Spencer, you're not stupid, and I'm not…very…angry with you. In some ways I suppose I should be…just a little bit _grateful, _because for the first time in my life my mother actually kind of opened up to me. It was still _wrong_," he said, in a more severe tone, "and something I don't ever want to catch you doing again, to anyone, for any reason."

Shawn snuffled and nodded into his shoulder. "I won't, Lassie, I promise. For you, I'll tow the line." Lassiter made a preemptive noise and Shawn amended himself quickly. "I mean, _for me_, I'll tow the line. But for you, too."

Lassiter sighed and patted Shawn's head. He was tired, actually - physically and emotionally. If Spencer had sprung this whole…romance thing on him when he was whole and healthy, everything would have been so much easier to deal with. He just didn't have the strength right now to cope with the man's neediness, or with his own conflicting feelings. He wished, more than anything, that he could simply tell the man to _go away_, at least for awhile, so he could rest and straighten things out in his own mind, but somehow he just couldn't possibly because he simply didn't have the energy to fight the battle that was almost certain to ensue.

"You're tired, aren't you?" Shawn said suddenly, with that eerie prescience he sometimes had, despite being so habitually blind to things he didn't _want_ to see. "Do you want to take a nap?"

"I don't know. I feel like I _shouldn't_, because I lay around all morning, but I do feel a bit like I've been dragged behind the bus for a couple of blocks."

"Nobody is ever going to accuse _you _of being lazy, Lass," Shawn said, and stood up. "Don't worry about it. You need a nap, you take one."

He held out his hand. Lassiter looked at it for a moment, then allowed Shawn to help him to his feet and lead him to the bedroom. Spencer took a quick second to pull back the covers and fluff Lassiter's pillow.

"Lassie, honestly, how can you sleep with a Colt Python under your pillow?" he tsked, and moved the .357 Magnum to the drawer of the nightstand, where he found Lassiter's nine millimeter Ruger. "You've got a lot more than eight hidden guns these days, don't you?"

"A gun in a drawer doesn't count as a hidden weapon," Lassiter said. "And put my Python back where you found it."

"You've got a .45 in a spring clip under the bed frame, Lassie, your Glock is on the table, and there are two guns in the drawer right next to you. You can take a nap without the gun under your pillow just this _once_, can't you?"

Lassiter grumbled but didn't bother to explain why he liked to know there was a gun under his pillow. It didn't reflect well on him, anyway, and he knew it. He climbed into bed without another word.

"May I join you?" Spencer asked quietly.

"Spencer, I - "

"I just want to be close to you, Lassie. Please?"

"All right."

Shawn smiled and lay down on the other side of the bed. Lassiter closed his eyes and wondered exactly what Cosmic Joker was fucking with his life. At this rate, he'd end up _married_ to Spencer and looking for a Surrogate to bear their children without ever once actually _deciding_ that he intended to pursue a relationship, or even if he decided that he _wouldn't._

_What Shawn wants, Shawn gets, _he thought, and a little thrill of terror in his spine warned him that it might be all too true.


	15. Chapter Fourteen: Cat Fight

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Psych or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other Psych-Os like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **M+

**Spoilers: **Through season six episode nine, "Neil Simon's Lover's Retreat"

**WARNING: **Shassie, meaning full-on homosexual Shawn/Lassiter angst and occasional explicitness. Further warning: isn't as Shassie as I expected it would be when I started out, although I think it does REMAIN Shassie, at least technically.

**A/N: **I know where this is going now. Don't hate me.

**Chapter Fourteen (I'm Not Superstitious, Why do You Ask?): Cat Fight**

It all fell apart on Saturday.

It started with the doorbell. It was six forty-five in the morning, and while Lassiter was already awake, Shawn was still asleep and sprawled across most of the King-sized bed and the other man in it. The doorbell rang again, and then twice more in quick succession. Shawn didn't wake up, but he did mutter and pull the pillow over his head, which gave Lassiter an opportunity to roll out from underneath his legs and out of bed.

The uninvited guest was _leaning_ on the bell, and as he approached the door Lassiter could hear the frantic rat-tat-tat of knuckles on wood as well. Irritated and more than a little alarmed Lassiter flung the door wide open, but any angry demand he might have made died on his lips immediately.

Juliet O'Hara stood on his front porch. She looked like a walking car accident.

"O'Hara, what's wrong? What happened?" he said. "Are you hurt?"

She shook her head, which made her loose and unruly curls bounce around her tear-streaked face. "B…B…B-_Buzz," _she wailed.

He stepped outside, if anything more frightened than ever. O'Hara, after all, was right here in front of him, disheveled but undoubtedly _alive. _"Something happened to McNab?"

She shook her head again and collapsed against his chest. He put his arms around her shoulders awkwardly and patted her back. "Come on, O'Hara, pull it together."

She took a deep, shaky breath. "Buzz said you and Shawn are _dating," _she blurted, and then went off into another round of near-hysterical sobs.

McNab was alive. That was good. That was _very_ good, because Lassiter was going to kill him.

"Get in here, O'Hara," he said, and pulled her inside and deposited her on the couch. "Do you want some coffee?"

She shook her curls wildly. "Just tell me it isn't true, Carlton. It isn't, is it?"

"It's not true, O'Hara."

She sank into the couch cushions as all the tension in her body relaxed instantly. "Oh, thank God. I mean, I didn't think it could _possibly_ be true, but Buzz was so convinced, and it made me start to think…and I couldn't _stop_ thinking about it and I couldn't _sleep…"_

She patted the seat next to her. "Carlton. Sit. Please."

He sat on the end of the couch furthest from her, and she scooted over immediately and put her head on his shoulder and her arms around his neck, which left him both startled and uncomfortable. "Are you sure I can't get you some coffee, O'Hara?" he said.

She nuzzled into his shoulder. "I just want to sit here awhile, Carlton. You can't believe how upset I let myself get over this whole silly situation…I feel so dumb."

"I'm…surprised, O'Hara," Lassiter admitted. "I never would have thought this would bother you so much. Is it just because you and he just got out of your relationship, or…oh God, O'Hara_, please _tell me you're not still stuck on him."

She pushed herself up on her hands and stared into his eyes, her own blue eyes once again wide and frightened. "You…never…thought…? Carlton, what do you mean?"

"I just thought it wouldn't bother you so much, is all, is it so hard to understand? I mean, you're…you're a _modern woman, _and all…"

"Oh my God, you _are_ with him, aren't you? Carlton, how _could _you?" She slapped him smartly and burst into a fresh round of tears.

It made him a little bit angry, most especially because he didn't entirely understand what she was so upset about. "Now wait just a minute, O'Hara - first of all, I most certainly am _not_ 'with him,' and secondly, why the hell do you care so much? Do you want him back or is this a homophobic thing?"

"_What? _No, I do _not_ want him back, and I am _not _homophobic. Carlton Lassiter, how _dare_ you say such a thing to me? And you _are_ with him, or we wouldn't be _having_ this conversation, would we? You…fucking…_liar." _She punctuated her words with rather solid punches on his arm.

"What conversation are we having, exactly?" Lassiter demanded as he fended off her fists. "You want the unvarnished truth, O'Hara? Okay, I'll give it to you. Spencer…and I…have been…_discussing the possibility _of there being…something, er, _romantic _between us. _Discussing_. And despite Spencer's best efforts, I'm far from sold on the idea. _Very_ far."

She collapsed back into the couch and sobbed into her hands. "I just don't _understand," _she wailed.

"That makes two of us," Lassiter said, a little coldly. "I don't understand _him, you_, or _any of this."_

"How could you even _consider_ this?" she asked. "You've always _hated_ Shawn."

"I don't…_hate_ Shawn, O'Hara," he said. "I've always found him irritating as hell and a professional hindrance but…well, he's been a good friend to me over the years, in between bouts of getting in my hair."

"And for that you'd _sleep _with him?"

"_You _did," he said ruthlessly.

She gaped at him like a large-mouth bass. "That's…that's…that's _entirely _different."

"Why? Because you're female?"

"_No, _because all these years I've had to defend him because you _hated_ his interference, you _couldn't stand _his humor, you wanted to _kill_ him for his inability to take anything seriously…Carlton, isn't that _exactly why _you didn't want _me_ to go out with him?"

"_Yes_. It _is."_

"Then how can you be so _goddamned hypocritical _as to turn around and go out with him _yourself?"_

Lassiter tugged at his hair with both hands. _"I'm not going out with him_, O'Hara, but unfortunately I seem to be the only person who _believes _that, up to and _including_ Spencer."

"_Carlton!"_

"_What?"_

She grabbed his face in both hands and kissed him full on the mouth, deeply, passionately.

_Crap on a cracker_, he thought in despair. _What the hell is going on? Am I the last single man on the _planet_, or something?_

"I knew it."

It was Shawn, wide-awake now and apparently rather angry. "Hey, Jules. Good morning. How are you? Get your lips off my boyfriend, please."

She pulled away and Lassiter did his best to sink into the upholstery. He wanted no part of this confrontation, not even to bear witness.

"He's _not_ your _boyfriend, _Shawn," Juliet spat.

"Not yet, maybe, but over the past couple of days we've made some pretty major strides in that direction. Did you tell her what we had for _breakfast_ on Thursday, Lassie?"

"Guys, don't do this," Lassiter said weakly.

"You were _supposed _to be taking care of an _injured man_, Shawn, _not_ taking advantage of him."

"And what were _you_ just doing, checking his _temperature?"_

"Guys, please," Lassiter tried again.

"_I _love him," O'Hara said.

"So do _I," _Shawn retorted, "and I think it's kind of funny how you never _wanted_ him until you knew _I_ had him."

"Guys."

"You _love _him?" Juliet sneered. "Don't make me laugh, Shawn. You're too conceited to love anyone but yourself."

"O'Hara."

"Oh, that's rich, Jules. I wasn't too conceited to love _you, _apparently."

"Spencer."

"Of _course _you were, Shawn. Why do you think I dumped you?"

"_Guys."_

"Oh, I'm sorry. I thought it was because you _loved Lassie."_

"And I suppose you being so very _in love _with_ Lassiter _is why you were so _careless _and _stupid_ when you were dating _me."_

"Well, given the fact that at the time I was trying desperately to hang on to the last vestiges of heterosexuality _and_ I thought Lassie _hated my guts_, yeah, probably. Now back off my man, woman, or so help me I'll go Killer Queen and get _all_ up in your grill," Shawn said, in a bitchy voice.

O'Hara's face was brilliant red and her eyes were bright and dangerous. Lassiter was fairly certain Shawn couldn't have picked a worse thing to say to her in that condition if he tried. She launched herself across the room at him, fist cocked. Lassiter sprang up and grabbed her around the waist. She was hard to hold on to and he was forced to actually pick her up and hold her off the ground. She didn't weigh much, but she was a lively armful and he wasn't fully healed or as strong as he was accustomed to being. He couldn't repress a half-strangled cry of pain.

"_Jules, stop! Lassie!" _Shawn cried in alarm.

She immediately went stock-still in his arms. "Oh my God. Carlton?"

He dropped her and fell onto the couch, breathless. Both she and Spencer were immediately by his side. "Carlton, speak to me - do you need an ambulance?" Juliet asked.

"Come on, Lassie, breathe," Shawn added.

Lassiter drew in a few whooping breaths and the pain in his chest slowly subsided. "Are you going to be okay?" Juliet said, with tears in her eyes. Lassiter nodded. "You're _sure?"_

"I'm okay," Lassiter said at last.

"I'm so sorry, Carlton." Juliet dropped her head onto his knee. Shawn shot her an irritated look but was smart enough, this once, to keep quiet, except to offer his own apology.

Lassiter's head was spinning, but it was only partly due to the exertion. This whole situation had more than a vague sense of unreality to it - a forty-three year old divorced male does _not_, suddenly, find himself in the position of Most Eligible Bachelor after having been virtually ignored by every potential partner for most of a decade. Conversely, the whole ordeal seemed to have made some things suddenly and abundantly clear, things he'd only barely understood about himself. And he knew what he had to do.

"I think," he said slowly, "that you need to leave."

O'Hara picked her head up, a stricken expression on her pretty face. Shawn, on the other hand, looked triumphant. But not for long.

"Both of you," Lassiter finished.

"Lassie…"

"Go. Now."

It was surprisingly gentle, for a command and from _that _source, but a command nevertheless, and neither Shawn nor Juliet could argue with it. With many a backward glance, O'Hara left, and Shawn went to dress and gather his things. Lassiter remained where he was on the couch. Shawn came out dragging his three bags. "I, uh, called Gus," he said. "He's coming to pick up my stuff. You…really want me to leave? Like, permanently?"

Lassiter nodded. "I need to think. I can't think like this."

"But…you're thinking, right? That means you haven't exactly made up your mind entirely…about us. Right?"

"That's one of a _lot _of things I need to think about, Spencer."

"Okay. Uh, I'm really sorry about this. About everything."

"It's no one's fault but mine, Spencer. I let things go for too long. Would you mind waiting for Guster outside, please?"

"No, no I don't mind," Shawn said glumly. "Bye, Lassie."

He trudged out of the house. Lassiter rose and locked the door behind him, then set about making preparations for what he now knew he had to do. At some point he heard the polite whirr of the Blueberry's hybrid engine pull into his driveway, and then the loud roar of Spencer's motorcycle, but he didn't pay much attention to either sound. The last thing he did was reach for the phone.

"Hey Zaze," he said when she answered. "It's Carlton. Listen, would you mind if _I _crashed at _your_ place tonight?"


	16. Chapter Fifteen: ChiefSlapped

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Psych or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other Psych-Os like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **M+

**Spoilers: **Through season six episode nine, "Neil Simon's Lover's Retreat"

**WARNING: **Shassie, meaning full-on homosexual Shawn/Lassiter angst and occasional explicitness. Further warning: isn't as Shassie as I expected it would be when I started out, although I think it does REMAIN Shassie, at least technically.

**A/N:** Painfully short, I know, but this was supposed to be part of a longer chapter that is on the way. In editing it'll probably be combined with that, but right now I'm not sure if they belong together or not so in the meantime, we gots this little dinky not-interlude (it's not an interlude only because it doesn't include Buzz, see my logic? No? Good, neither do I.)

**Chapter Fifteen: Chief-Slapped**

"Let me get this straight," Chief Vick said, and each word was spit forth loaded with as much venom as the woman could muster, which was quite a little. "The two of you got into a fight in my head detective's house, and now he's _missing?"_

Shawn and Juliet stood before the Chief's desk like penitent children sent to the principal's office. "Yes, Chief," Juliet said. "We went back to his place to check on him and he wasn't there. When I looked through the window I saw that all of his things are packed in boxes."

"Might I ask what this…_disagreement_ between the two of you was about?" Vick said through her teeth.

Juliet and Shawn shared a look. "Chief, that's…kind of a personal matter," Shawn said.

"Mr. Spencer, I hired you to look after my head detective, a task at which you have failed utterly. You lost any right to confidentiality you might have had. And O'Hara, your lack of regard for your partner's well-being is both shocking and disappointing and anything that impacts the functioning of this department and its personnel is very much _my business_. Now _what were you fighting about?"_

Juliet hung her head in shame. "Detective Lassiter," she said in a very small voice.

"You were fighting…about Detective Lassiter?" Vick said in confusion.

"More like…_over, _Chief," Shawn said.

"You fought…_over_…Lassiter. I'm…not sure I understand." The guilty parties shuffled their feet and exchanged more flickering glances. "Oh, _I _see. Wait - _what?"_

"Chief, I just want to say - " Juliet began, but Vick cut her off.

"You…and Spencer…are fighting _over_…Detective Lassiter. Do I then assume that _both of you _are…in a _relationship _with him?"

"_No!" _Juliet cried.

"Well, we both…want to be," Shawn admitted.

"_Shawn!"_

"Jules, we have to be truthful about this," he said.

Chief Vick squinched her eyes shut and rubbed at her throbbing temples. "So you, Spencer, and you, O'Hara…both have…_romantic feelings _for Detective Lassiter. Dare I ask how _he_ feels?"

"He and I are together," Shawn said.

"You are _not," _Juliet spat.

"We _would be _if you hadn't jumped in with your little…lips," Shawn said.

"Both of you, _enough," _Vick said. "Listen, I don't want the details - _believe me, _I don't want the details. Just tell me where my head detective is."

"We don't know, Chief," Juliet said. "When we realized he was gone we came straight here."

"Spencer, you're supposed to be psychic," Chief Vick said. "You're not _sensing _where my detective might be?"

"Well, I know that he's planning to move into a new condo," he said. "He could be there since all his things are packed. Unfortunately I don't know exactly where it is, but I know it's closer to the station. His mother lives in Carpinteria, so he could be _there_…but I kind of doubt it. He and her dog don't get along."

"That's the best you can give me? Really?"

"I'll keep trying, Chief."

"You'd better."

"Chief, can't we do something?" O'Hara asked. "I know we can't technically issue a Missing Persons report, but can't we put out a BOLO for an Endangered Adult? I mean, he's _injured."_

"_No_, O'Hara, we _can't_. We can't waste police resources looking for a grown man who left of his own free will. You're off duty today, so if you want to look for him yourself feel free - but you'll do it without bringing the PD or our resources into it. If Carlton wants to be found he'll turn up. Hell, for all you know he just went to the beach for the day."

"Carlton…on the _beach?" _Juliet said incredulously. "Chief, the only reason he ever goes to the beach is to watch for wanted criminals."

"If only you were this worried about him while you were yanking each other's weaves out," Vick said. "Good day, both of you, and Mr. Spencer? You can forget _all about _getting paid."

"I never intended to take your money, Chief," Shawn said quietly. "I had my own reasons for wanting to take care of Lassie, and I've got my own reasons for wanting to be sure he's okay. I'll find him, Chief."


	17. Chapter Sixteen: Lessons Learned

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Psych or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other Psych-Os like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **M+

**Spoilers: **Through season six episode nine, "Neil Simon's Lover's Retreat"

**WARNING: **Shassie, meaning full-on homosexual Shawn/Lassiter angst and occasional explicitness.

**A/N:** Sorry for the delay - it's Psycherday night so my attention is divided, plus my main computer suddenly and inexplicably died last night, which has left me unsettled and depressed. I'm going to write a chapter of PARTNERS next to assuage my troubled feelings (I can't afford to take my baby to the computer doctor right now, wah!).

**Chapter Sixteen: Lessons Learned**

"Are you sure you want to do this, Sweetie?" ZaSu asked. She wrung her hands in agitation. "I mean, you're not really…_well_ enough, are you?"

"I'll be fine, Zaze," Lassiter said. "Thank you again for helping me pack up my place."

"Not a problem, Darling. Are you sure you got everything you're going to need?"

"I'm sure. There's just one thing I'm going to check on." He pulled out his cell phone and dialed a number he hadn't called in several years.

"…Hello?"

"Hello, Torie, it's Carlton. Listen, before you hang up, all I want is to ask a quick question."

"I wouldn't hang up on you, Carlton. Not anymore, anyway."

"Well, thank you for that," he said. "Listen, I know it's kind of an outside chance, but do you still have those old leathers we used to wear when we'd take the Damn Bike out?"

There was a long pause. "Yes, actually, I do," she said at last.

"Really? Wow, I honestly wasn't expecting you to say that. Er…is there any chance I could get mine from you?"

"Are you…going riding?" she asked.

"Yeah, I am."

"I honestly wasn't expecting _you_ to say _that," _she said. "I thought your days riding hogback were pretty much behind you."

"I thought so, too, but…well, we made some pretty good memories on the back of that bike. I thought maybe it was time I started making some new ones."

"They _were_ good memories," she said. She sounded a little choked up. "If you can come over, I'll dig those things out for you. I'm pretty sure I know right where they are. Will you be…riding _with_ someone?"

"Nope, going solo."

"Oh. Are you sure that's safe?"

He laughed. "Riding a motorcycle isn't all that safe, Torie, regardless of whether or not there's anyone riding with you. I'll be okay. Mind if I come over now, or is this a bad time?"

"No. No, now is just fine. I'll…see you in a few minutes, then, I guess."

"Right. See you then." He clicked out and slipped the phone back in his pocket.

"Are you going to take the Damn Bike?" ZaSu asked.

"Seems like a good opportunity to start getting used to it again," Lassiter said. "I need to put the new tag on it, anyway."

"Okay, just be careful. You…aren't going to head out straight away, are you? I mean, are you going to stay another night? You won't get very far with what daylight's left."

"I don't need to put you out any more than I already have, Zaze. I can stay at my mother's tonight."

"And let that awful dog of hers piss on you all night? Sweetie, you spend the night with me again. 'Put me out,' are you serious? How many times have I sacked out at your place over the years?"

"Well, thank you, ZaSu, I appreciate it. I'll guess that means I'll see you in a bit, then."

"You better believe I will, young man. And it had better be in _one piece_, too."

"Don't worry, Mom, I'll be _real careful_ on my bike," he joked.

ZaSu left in her Honda Accord, backseat and trunk jammed with items Lassiter no longer wanted as well as the food from his refrigerator. Lassiter opened his garage and pulled the Damn Tarp off of the Damn Bike, a gleaming red 1957 Harley Davidson "Knucklehead," customized with pillion seating and two large leather saddlebags. He grabbed a screwdriver out of his toolbox and knelt to remove the out-of-date license plate and replace it with the new tag he'd received from the DMV that morning after taking the motorcycle's registration out of storage.

The bike roared to life with the first kick and he walked it out of the garage. Even though it had been many years since the last time he rode the basics came back to him quite quickly. In a very short time he found himself pulling up outside the home he'd once shared with his ex-wife.

She was waiting outside. He pulled off his aviators as he dismounted and looked at her for the first time in three years. She wasn't quite what he remembered, but his memory was untrustworthy when it came to Victoria Parker-Lassiter. She was older, true, but she'd probably never been quite as beautiful as he'd thought her. She was still a beautiful woman, though, and he felt a faint pang of regret for their broken marriage, but it wasn't half as bad as he'd expected it to be. He had finally moved on.

"Carlton," she said. "You look…you look good."

"You, too," he said.

"Are you all right?" she said suddenly. "I wanted to come to the hospital, but I guess I…chickened out."

"I'm okay," he said. "I'm not completely firing on all cylinders yet, but I'm getting there."

"Well, you do look good," she said. "You look _great_, actually. I always liked you in jeans."

He scuffed the toes of his new boots on the concrete shyly. "Yeah, I just bought these yesterday. I didn't have any anymore, if you can believe it."

"I can believe it. New boots, too?" He nodded. "Well, I found our old leathers, I got yours out for you. Would you like to come in?"

He nodded. "For a minute - I've got a worried transvestite waiting for me, and you do _not _want to keep a six and a half foot tranny waiting."

She led him inside. "So you and…'Miss Fabulous' are still friends, then?"

"Well that's the first time I've ever heard you call her by her chosen name. Yes, we are. She's letting me crash with her until I leave - my place is all packed, I'm moving when my lease is up."

"Moving? To _where?"_

He laughed. "Eight blocks closer to the station."

She smiled and looked somehow relieved. "It's nice to see _some_ things never change."

"Some things don't, but some things need to."

She brought out a cardboard box from the kitchen. "They were packed in the attic. They smell a little mothball-y, but I checked them over and they're still in good shape." She pulled out a black leather jacket and a pair of matching chaps, both as plain and workmanlike as it was possible to get. Wearing the chaps had always felt just a trifle fey to him, but given some of the things he'd done in the past week he supposed that was no longer a real concern and they were more than practical given the sort of riding he was planning to do.

"So…where are you riding?" she asked. "Finally going to Mexico?"

"No, that was what _we _planned to do. Doesn't feel right going alone. I'm just going to head east, see a little bit of the country. I'm not going to be heading too far north - it is February, after all - but there are plenty of places in the south I'd like to go."

"Civil war battlegrounds?"

He nodded. "A few other things, too. Monument Valley, the Grand Canyon. My whole life I've lived one freaking state over from the Grand goddamn Canyon and I've never even _thought_ of going to see it, isn't that _weird?_ I'll probably swing through Utah and see the other canyons everybody brags on - Bryce and Zion."

"Don't you think it's going to be kind of a cold ride?"

"I'll be okay. If it gets too cold I'll find a hotel."

"How far are you planning to go?" she asked.

"As far as I can before my lease is up and I have to move."

"When is that?"

"April."

"Wow. Quite a ride."

"Probably a little overly ambitious, but whether I actually make it across the country or not isn't the point."

"So what _is_ the point?"

"The journey."

"That's a pretty radical concept from you. Aren't you all about the _destination?"_

"That's my problem. I'm trying to change that about myself. At least a little."

"Doing your own version of _Travels With Charlie?"_

He laughed. "I was a little afraid you'd equate it to _The Catcher in the Rye."_

"Please, give me _some_ credit. I remember how much you despise Holden Caulfield. The spoiled brat."

"Well, I'd better get going. It was good seeing you, and thanks."

"Wait a minute, don't you think you should try those on?" she said. "It's been a long time, you know."

"Yeah, but thanks to recent events I'm currently at my lightest weight since high school."

"Even so, why don't you go try them on? You…remember where the bedroom is."

"Yeah. I do." He took the jacket and chaps with him down the hall.

The room looked completely different, which was a blessing. She'd repapered the walls with a flowery pink print and changed out the old blue carpet for a plush mauve one. The bed was new and there were about a dozen decorative pillows piled on top of it. In all, it was a room that retained no sense of him or the time he'd spent there with her at all.

He sat down on the vanity chair to take off his boots and pull the old leather up over the stiff denim of his new jeans. He'd never had much meat on his legs, one of the things that made him look taller than he really was, but even so the chaps were slightly baggy now thanks to the weight he'd lost in the hospital. The jacket was even baggier, but overall the clothes were perfectly acceptable. He pulled his boots back on and folded his old corduroy jacket over his arm.

"Carlton, wow," Victoria said when he reentered the foyer. "I can hardly believe it but I think you actually look better in those _now_ than you did back then."

"Aside from the fact that they kind of look like hand-me-downs from the big brother I never had."

"It's not that bad," she said. "You know what it is? I think it's the salt-and-pepper. For the record, I think it was a good move to stop dying your hair."

"I never dyed my hair. I met a fake psychic and suddenly I'm Old Father William."

She smiled. "I was just teasing you. It does look good on you, though. Distinguished and just a little dangerous."

"That's the Glock, not the grey."

"Well, that too."

He shuffled his feet. "Well, I'd better get going. I was planning on running out to the stables and checking on General Sherman. I've called the place a couple of times a week but I haven't been able to actually get out there to see how they're treating him."

"You've still got that old horse?"

"He's not old…or not very, at any rate."

"Does…er…'ZaSu' still make you call him…?"

"Tecumseh, yeah. Covers her ears and sings 'Somewhere Over the Rainbow' if I ever venture the name 'General Sherman' in her presence. I can't believe you remembered that."

"I remember a lot of things." She stepped closer to him. "I remember the time I finally talked you into riding all the way to San Francisco for the weekend. That was a lot of fun, wasn't it?"

He nodded. "Although as I recall we never actually made it to San Francisco. Didn't we end up spending all weekend at a crappy roadside motel fifty miles out of town?"

She laughed and tossed her hair. "What can I say? Sitting behind you with my arms around your waist while that machine throbbed between my legs always made me intensely horny."

"That place had cockroaches the size of Chihuahuas and I'm pretty sure there were bedbugs, too."

"I don't remember you mentioning that at the time."

"Well, I was a little preoccupied."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

She'd somehow managed to close the slight distance between them without appearing to move at all. Lassiter took a half step back and shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans. "So, how's…uh, what's his name? Roger?"

"Robert," she said, and took her own half step back. "He's good. He's been working a lot, lately, he's very excited about some opportunities that have opened up for him lately. He's hoping for a big promotion."

"Ah, yes. The fast-paced life of the Certified Public Accountant."

"He is a little boring. Oh well, not every guy can be Martin Riggs, like you."

"You managed to land on my _least_-favorite movie cop ever."

"Well I couldn't remember Clint Eastwood's character's name in…er…"

"_Dirty Harry?"_

"That's the one."

"For the record, his name was Dirty Harry."

"Oh. That makes sense, now."

He chuckled. "Well, I'd better go. Goodbye, Victoria."

"Goodbye, Carlton."

He started out the door but turned back halfway. "Just out of curiosity, might I ask why you kept our leathers? I mean, you pretty much threw out or…"

"…_Destroyed _everything else that was yours or ours?"

"Yeah."

She shrugged. "I tried. Believe me, I tried. I don't know why I couldn't do it. Maybe because those memories were just too sweet. We…had a good thing, once. Sometimes I can't figure out why it didn't work."

"I can. We just didn't mesh."

"Yeah, I suppose."

"Goodbye, Victoria."

"Bye, Carlton."


	18. Chapter Seventeen: HardWon Freedom

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Psych or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other Psych-Os like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **M+

**Spoilers: **Through season 6 episode 9, "Neil Simon's Lover's Retreat"

**Warning: **Shassie, meaning full-on homosexual Shawn/Lassiter angst and occasional explicitness

**Chapter Seventeen: Hard-Won Freedom**

"Come on, let's check Lassiter's place again, maybe he's back," Juliet said.

"He's not going to be there, Jules," Shawn said. "He flew the coop. Hit the road. Traveled down that dusty trail. He…er…left."

"It's worth a shot, Shawn," Juliet said severely.

"He wasn't there yesterday _or _the day before," Shawn pointed out. "What makes you think he'll be there today?"

"Because yesterday and the day before there were definite signs that he'd _been there," _Juliet said. "His things haven't been packing themselves."

"True, but people don't pack up their houses when they're planning on staying there."

"True, but unless you've got any better ideas then we stick with our best chances."

"I _had _a better idea, you're the one that shot it down."

Juliet sighed. "I _looked _for ZaSu Fabulous in every phone book and unofficial database I could find. There was nothing."

"You're the one that invited her to Lassiter's birthday party," Shawn argued. "You could've looked in Lassiter's Black Book again, she _has _to be in _there."_

"I _did_ look in Lassiter's Black Book," she said. "I didn't find her at all. She must be under another name. So why don't you get _psychic_ and figure out what name that might be, eh?"

"If you'd let me _look_ in Lassiter's Black Book, I might be able to."

Juliet screeched to a halt outside Lassiter's house. "Fine - if he's not here we'll run by the station and you can look to your heart's content, just shut the hell up about it for now, okay? Come on."

They got out of the car and Shawn trotted to the garage door. "Hey, the Sting Ray is here…but dammit, the motorcycle is gone. He may still be here, though - he wasn't a big fan of the Damn Bike, it seemed, so he might have just sold it."

"There's a note on the door," Juliet observed. She ran up to the porch and ripped the tape off. "It's…it's a…_poem?"_

"Lassie wrote a poem?" Shawn said incredulously.

"No, it's a copy from a book. The poem is by Shel Silverstein."

"_A Light in the Attic _and _Where the Sidewalk Ends_, right?"

"Among others, yes. This…I can't figure out what he might have meant by leaving this here."

"Let's hear it, maybe there's a message in it."

"Okay." She cleared her throat and began to read.

_**The One Who Stayed**_

_You should have heard the old men cry,_

_You should have heard the biddies_

_When that sad stranger raised his flute_

_And piped away the kiddies._

_Katy, Tommy, Meg and Bob_

_Followed, skipping gaily._

_Red-haried Ruth, my brother Rob,_

_And little crippled Bailey,_

_John and Nils and Cousin Claire,_

_Dancin', spinnin', turnin'_

'_Cross the hills to God knows where –_

_They never came returnin'._

'_Cross the hills to God knows where_

_The piper pranced, a leadin'_

_Each child in Hamlin Town but me,_

_And I stayed home unheedin'._

_My papa says that I was blest_

_For if that music found me,_

_I'd be witch-cast like all the rest._

_This town grows old around me._

_I cannot say I did not hear_

_That sound so haunting hollow –_

_I heard, I heard, I heard it clear…_

_I was afraid to follow._

When she finished both stood silent for a long time, neither entirely certain what the poem meant with regard to their wayward detective, but both quite sure it meant something both momentous and faintly ominous. Finally Juliet said, "He's really gone, isn't he? Maybe…forever."

"We've got to find ZaSu Fabulous. Dammit, I can't believe that asshole clerk at the bookstore wouldn't let us contact her."

"I can kind of understand his point, though, Shawn. I mean, this may be California, but there are still a lot of people who might want to cause trouble for someone like ZaSu."

"Come on, let's go to the station and take a look in Lassie's book. She's in there somewhere, I know she is."

"All right, but let's at least knock - his car _is_ here, after all."

"Yeah, but _he's _not. This place is deader than Woody's guest list for any party he's ever held."

"Ew." Juliet rang the doorbell twice and knocked as loud as she could. There was no sign of life inside the darkened house. "Okay, you're right - he's not here. Let's run by the station."

She drove them to the Santa Barbara police department and they snuck into the bullpen like thieves despite the fact that it was broad daylight and the place was bustling with people who knew them. Juliet dug into Lassiter's desk drawer for the small black-bound notebook in which he kept the names and addresses of past arrests. Shawn ripped it out of her hands and flipped through it quickly.

"There. Zachariah Summer. That's her," he said with surety, though he wasn't absolutely positive.

"Are you sure?"

"_Za_chariah _Su_mmer. Gotta be."

"I kind of thought she took her name from ZaSu Pitts," Juliet said doubtfully.

"Who?"

"Never mind. I hope you're right, Shawn."

"Call the number."

She pulled out her cell phone and dialed in the number listed beneath the name in Lassiter's careful block printing. The call was answered on the third ring. "Hello, excuse me, please, but is this the residence of ZaSu Fabulous?" Juliet asked.

"…Speaking," came the cautious reply.

O'Hara shot Shawn a quick thumbs up and continued. "Wonderful. Hello, Ms. Fabulous - I don't know if you remember me, but my name is Juliet O'Hara. I'm Carlton Lassiter's partner on the force."

"Oh. Yes, I remember you, Detective. May I help you with something?"

"I'm hoping so, Ma'am. Carlton is AWOL, you see, and I was hoping you might know where he's taken himself off to?"

"He's been staying with me for the past few nights."

"He has? He's all right, then?"

"Yes, he's fine, Detective."

"Oh, wonderful. Is he there with you now? I was hoping I might talk to him."

"No, he's gone now."

"Will he be back soon?"

"I don't think so, Detective - he's taking a trip across country on his motorcycle. He doesn't intend to come back until sometime in April."

"_WHAT?"_

"He has gone on vacation, Detective," the transgendered woman said very slowly and clearly. "Given the fact that he has more than a year's worth of vacation days banked I think he's more than entitled to it, don't you?"

"I…yes, I suppose he is. It's just a surprise, is all. Do you…do you know where he's gone exactly?"

"I don't think there's a clear plan," ZaSu said, only a trifle disingenuously. "He wants to see some of the southern battlegrounds, of course, and I believe he's thinking about spending a little time in Key West. But I'm just taking care of his Damn Yankee horse for him, not cataloguing his itinerary."

"Oh, of course."

"Ask her what kind of bike he's got, so we can keep an eye out for him if he's still in town," Shawn whispered.

"Ma'am, could you tell me please what kind of motorcycle Carlton is riding?" Juliet asked into the phone.

"It's an old Harley, I don't know much about that kind of thing. It's red. Why? You planning on tracking him down and dragging him home?" the woman said suspiciously.

"No, Ma'am, we wouldn't do that. We just want to be sure he's safe."

"Safer on that bike than with a couple of wild animals fighting over him like he's a rawhide bone or something."

"Er…yes, I suppose he is. Thank you, Ms. Fabulous."

"Goodbye, Detective." The woman hung up.

"It's a red Harley, and she says it's old," Juliet said as she slipped the phone back into her pocket. "I don't think we'll find him, though - she said he's riding across country, maybe as far as the Florida Keys. He won't be back until _April_, according to her."

"Geez, hasn't ridden in years and jumps straight to the cross-country trip? Man, he's going to be saddle sore like you wouldn't believe," Shawn said wonderingly. "An old red Harley, eh?"

He was suddenly assaulted with what he'd come to think of as a "Shawnvision Flashback," where his near-eidetic memory brought back with startling clarity something he'd seen in passing. He'd sat at a red light in the middle of town just that morning, watching with a degree of envy the absolutely cherry 1957 Harley "Knucklehead" driving past. The driver was unfamiliar to him at the time - a tall, thin man in plain black riding chaps and jacket, both slightly too large for him, and a black helmet. But poking out from under the flap of one of the bike's saddlebags was the dun-colored sleeve of a corduroy jacket he knew rather well.

"Crap, I _saw _him. Just this morning!"

"What? Where?" Juliet cried.

"Headed out of town. _Dammit!"_

"Well that's it, then," O'Hara said. "He's gone. And we either will or will _not _see him again, I guess. At which time we will owe him one hell of an apology."

Shawn shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans. "I guess so," he said sadly.

Juliet clapped him on the shoulder. "You know, we should probably be happy for him," she said. "This could be exactly what he needs - not just to get out from under…the two of us, but to kind of figure himself out."

"Yeah, you're probably right. I just wish if he needed a hobby that he'd taken up racquetball or something safe like that."

"I know. Come on, let's tell the Chief."


	19. Chapter Eighteen: The Search for Lassie

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Psych or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other Psych-Os like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **M+

**Spoilers: **Through season six episode nine, "Neil Simon's Lover's Retreat"

**WARNING: **Shassie, meaning full-on homosexual Shawn/Lassiter angst and occasional explicitness.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Eighteen: The Search for Spo - Lassiter<strong>

Chief Vick already knew.

"Detective Lassiter called me this morning and apologized for the short notice," she said. "He is taking an extended vacation, and while I could have wished for better circumstances I am quite happy that he's finally doing something for himself. I think this could be just what he's needed for a very long time, now." She dismissed Shawn and Juliet but when they were halfway out the door of her office she raised her head from her paperwork once more.

"If he asks for a new partner when he gets back, I _will_ acquiesce to the request," she warned succinctly. "And if he does not wish to work hand-in-hand with Psych any longer then Psych will no longer be allowed to work any case Lassiter takes lead on. Final decision."

In the end he was unable to do his disappearing act "Lyle-Style," and instead went with a modified version of standard "Carlton-Style," meaning he not only contacted his employer but also his mother and sisters. His mother was less than enthusiastic about the idea though she didn't say it out loud - a true sign that she really meant to be more supportive. Janie expressed a few concerns but Lulu, perhaps predictably, was thrilled when he told her.

"Damn, Carly-Bear," she said, in her excitement reverting to use of the childhood nickname she hadn't used since she was in Oshkosh B'Gosh overalls and Keds sneakers, "this is incredible. I'm tempted to go with you but this is one of those solo search-for-meaning things, isn't it? Bring me back a nut log from Stuckeys and a Kachina doll."

"Okay, but you know there's not a lot of room on the Damn Bike for souvenirs so don't expect one of the big ones."

"Nut log or Kachina?"

"Either or."

He didn't really have a plan or a set path to follow, far more of a departure from the norm for him than merely leaving Santa Barbara, and he opted to make the initial trek across the Southwest with few stops. This was partly because he wanted to get across the Mojave quickly while he was still getting used to the bike and uncertain on two wheels, but also because he decided on the fly as it were that the Grand Canyon would be his last stop before returning home. It gave him something to look forward to on the long ride back from wherever he ended up.

He did take the detour to the "other two canyons," Bryce and Zion. When he stood at the precipice of Zion canyon he had a hard time imagining that _any_ canyon could be "Grander."

He played tourist at the Alamo in San Antonio, a slightly claustrophobic experience given the small space and the rather high volume of off-season visitors coupled with the sheer weight of history in the ancient mission building. Fifteen minutes inside and he had to leave before he experienced a panic attack. He spent the rest of the afternoon on the River Walk, enjoying the South Texas sunshine and the picturesque scenery. His next destination was New Orleans, Louisiana.

He went for the history, not the Mardi Gras celebrations, but managed to get tied up in both. He got slightly drunk and saw a lot of reasons to arrest people, but managed to curb the impulse to act seventeen-hundred miles outside of his jurisdiction and let the NOPD do their work unassisted. He went on a nighttime Paranormal tour of the city, which was considerably more interesting than he'd expected despite the number of times he had to fight the urge to cough-speak the word "bullshit." And he visited the famous above-ground cemeteries. He wasn't looking for it, but eventually he ran across the tomb of famed Voodoo Queen Marie Laveau.

He didn't know a whole lot more about the woman than her name and the few rather suspect details he'd learned on the paranormal tour, but he knew the intention of all the X's marked on the face of her grave. Ordinarily he would be enraged at such blatant vandalism, but in this particular instance he suspected that the occupant of the crypt didn't mind in the least - assuming dead people were capable of being offended.

Someone had left a half stick of henna-colored chalk on the ground. He picked it up and marked his own discreet X on the Voodoo Queen's grave. Then, with a half-smile, he drew a circle around his X. Laveau, he suspected, wouldn't mind _that_, either. This wish was one he intended to make come true on his own, and he thought that was something Laveau could relate to and respect. She'd probably never relied on anyone else to make _her_ wishes come true, either.

From New Orleans he traveled to Vicksburg, and wound a random path through other Southern battlegrounds of the Civil War until he made it to Georgia, where he walked through the stark lines of white tombstones commemorating the Union men who died as POWs in Andersonville prison camp. Then he turned south and rode the long interstate stretch through the nation's flaccid penis to the Keys. He'd called Florida the "flaccid penis state" in front of O'Hara once, and she'd laughed so hard she got the hiccups. He spent a few days on Key West, charter fishing and eating a lot of sweet delicious lime pie. When he got tired of the beach bum life (it didn't take long) he rode back to Miami and hopped a flight to Newark. He spent a week in New Jersey not-Skyping with his nephew and flew back to Miami to collect the Damn Bike from MIA's long-term parking garage. He was more than a little surprised and quite pleased to discover that it was still there and appeared undamaged.

He rode back through the southern states, already a little nostalgic for his vacation, and when he hit the Arizona border he started following the green interstate signs leading to the Grand Canyon, though he more than half wished he'd skipped it for another run to Zion. Anxious by then to get home, he pushed through the night and arrived at the South Rim just as the sun was coming up.

There were no words. No words in English or any other language, living or dead, to describe what he saw as the first rays of the sun bounced off the thin, early-morning mist and slowly crept into the depths of the canyon. At first the colors were muted, pastels, watercolors, but as the sun grew in intensity so too did the palette. At no point did he see a single color he could put a definite name to.

He ultimately ended up spending three full days at the canyon. He didn't take a helicopter tour, or ride a donkey down the narrow paths to the river far below. He simply rode to the edge and watched, and it wasn't boring - the canyon was different from every angle, every passing moment. He still wasn't certain he believed in God, but if God existed, _this_ was the sort of place he thought he could reach out and touch Him.

Okay, so he understood why they called it the _Grand_ Canyon. It was a rather pitiful expression of just how majestic the place was, but there was no _mot juste _to describe this place. Over the course of the three days he spent just…looking…he occasionally wished there were someone with him to share the experience, but overall he was glad to be alone. If Spencer were standing next to him he would be bored stiff, talking a mile a minute, completely ruining everything and probably begging for a trip to Las Vegas. O'Hara would be quiet because O'Hara knew _how _to be quiet, but O'Hara too would ultimately be puzzled why he chose to simply stand and look for three whole days. O'Hara would recognize the beauty of the place, but because she was _used_ to seeing beauty in the world she could not appreciate it as completely as a man who rarely if ever saw beauty in anything or anyone.

When he finally tore himself away from the canyon, with a promise-to-self that he would return before very many years had passed, he still wasn't entirely certain what he _wanted, _but he finally knew what he needed.


	20. Chapter Nineteen: LassieLife Crisis

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Psych or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other Psych-Os like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **M+

**Spoilers: **Through season six episode nine, "Neil Simon's Lover's Retreat"

**WARNING: **Shassie, meaning full-on homosexual Shawn/Lassiter angst and occasional explicitness.

**A/N: **We're rapidly approaching the conclusion, which is why I've slowed down so much. Endings always make my gears grind a bit. But we're getting there.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Nineteen: Lassie Life Crisis<strong>

It was a hell of a good feeling, walking into the bullpen for his first day back. A physical fitness examination cleared him for full active duty and he'd been given his best psychological evaluation in years. He felt fit and confident as he walked the well-worn path from the front door to his desk.

Someone was sitting in his chair, spinning like a child. The striped polo shirt, Bermuda shorts, and lime green flip flops screamed "Spencer" but the unruly hair was almost improbably black and the build was all wrong. When the chair turned back around to the front he found himself staring into a face he hadn't seen in eleven years - except in his own mirror.

"_Lyle!"_

His brother shot to his feet. He was shorter and stocker than Lassiter, but otherwise almost identical except in fashion sense. "Carly-Que," he said. He bore the half-guilty, half-defiant expression Lassiter remembered so well, the same expression Spencer adopted whenever he was caught doing something he shouldn't. "You're back. I, uh…I know you're pretty steamed at me for taking off and not calling, but…"

Lassiter closed the distance between himself and his baby brother and wrapped him in a tight bear hug. Lyle's blue eyes widened in surprise.

"Er…hey, bro…uh, glad to see you, too."

"When did you get back to Santa Barbara?" Lassiter asked.

"Almost two months ago. Dude, I came all this way to see my big brother and I find out I just missed him."

"Where've you been staying?"

"With Ma." Lassiter cocked a skeptical brow. "Hey man, I know, but it actually hasn't been so bad. She's been kind of…motherly. I think you put the fear of God into her, Carl."

Lassiter cleared his throat nervously. "Did she tell you _why_ she's had this…change of heart?"

"No, but I think I figured it out on my own. I met your…'friends.' Man, you should've seen their faces when I first showed up - I think they thought I was _you._ I have to say, Carly-Que, I'm impressed. I never figured you for a Player, particularly of both sides of the fence. You must've loosened up a lot. I know you don't need my opinion but I'm going to give it to you anyway - Shawn's a lot of fun but I think you'd be better off with Juliet, and not just because she's a, you know, a _she."_

"Actually I think I'm better off as I am, Lyle. At least for now."

"What, you mean you're going to keep playing _both _of them?" Lyle sounded more impressed than ever. "Dude, when did you take the stick out of your ass and become awesome?"

"Yeah, don't think _too_ highly of me, the stick is still firmly implanted. I'm not playing _either _of them. I've decided I'm not ready for a relationship right now."

Lyle's jaw dropped. "You're kidding me, right? You've been divorced, what, three years now? And you're going to let a smokin' hot chick and…what I guess is a good-looking guy slip right through your fingers because you're _not ready for a relationship_? What gives?"

"I figured myself out," Lassiter said simply. "That's what I left Santa Barbara to do, and it worked. What I realized is that until I'm okay with who I am there's no way in hell I can have a healthy relationship with anyone. And there's still a lot about me that I'm trying to improve."

"Carly, have you been reading self-help books?" Lyle asked seriously.

"Not a one. Seems to defeat the purpose of helping yourself, doesn't it?"

Lyle shook his head. "I guess you haven't changed that much after all. And only _you_ could manage to stay the same and still be a completely different person than I remember."

Lassiter laughed. "I've been through a lot in the last eleven years. Everybody changes, Lyle, and _everybody_ stays the same." He sat down in his chair at his desk with a smile of satisfaction to be back where he belonged. "Listen, I've got to get back into the swing of this work-thing now, but how about we meet up for lunch? Say…twelve-thirty?"

"Sounds good. I'll see you then, big bro."

A few minutes after Lyle left Lassiter's ears perked to the sound of heels clip-clopping across the tile floor. A moment later and Juliet O'Hara stood penitently at his right elbow.

"Do I have my partner back?" she asked meekly.

"Do you want a new one?" Lassiter asked in a perfectly even tone. She shook her head vigorously. "Then you've got your partner back."

Her face split in a huge grin and she pranced a couple of happy hop-steps, but then brought herself back under a rigid form of control. "Can I have a hug?" she asked.

Lassiter stood up but when she moved to embrace him he held up his hands. "Hold on. O'Hara, I just want to know one thing - are you past that whole…_kissing _episode?"

She stopped in confusion. "I'm sorry, what?"

"You don't still think you're in love with me, right?"

Her face fell. "I…it was a mistake, Carlton, I'm sorry."

"You didn't exactly answer my question," he pointed out.

She took a deep breath and held her head up. "I love you, Carlton. You're my partner, my teacher, my best friend, and you've always been there for me when I needed you, even when it made you uncomfortable. But I'm a big girl. I can deal with the fact that you don't want me."

Lassiter shook his head. "I think, O'Hara, that you're really suffering more from separation anxiety than heartsickness," he said.

"I don't think I understand."

"I almost died, O'Hara. You were on the verge of having to get used to an entirely different partner with an entirely different set of quirks. And I know full well that wouldn't be your first worry - you _care_ about me, that's the kind of person you are. I think maybe fear and relief conspired to make you mistake caring for love."

"And I think you're too wrapped up in the idea that you're unlovable to believe that anyone could or would honestly fall for you," Juliet said, with a sad sigh.

He shrugged. "It's very possible. Which is but one of many reasons why I'm dropping out of the dating scene for awhile."

"_What?"_

"When I like myself it'll be a hell of a lot easier to believe that someone else could like me, won't it?"

She ogled him for a moment. "I…didn't realize you were having an existential crisis, Carlton."

"I've been doing the Albert Camus routine for years now, except for the whole kill-an-Arab-on-the-beach bit. I think it's high time I figured out what matters to me. _But," _he said more grandly, "there's one thing that's _always _mattered to me, and always will: the job. So let's get to work, shall we?"


	21. Chapter Twenty: My Lunch With Lyle

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Psych or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other Psych-Os like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **M+

**Spoilers: **Through season six episode nine, "Neil Simon's Lover's Retreat"

**WARNING: **Shassie, meaning full-on homosexual Shawn/Lassiter angst and occasional explicitness.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Twenty: My Lunch With Lyle<strong>

"So, did you tell your not-so-secret admirers that you're off the market?"

Lassiter looked at his little brother over the basket of nachos Lyle was eating. "I told O'Hara. She took it fairly well, although I don't think she's terribly happy about it."

"What about the SpenStar?"

Lassiter grimaced. "I can't believe he's got you calling him that," he said. "No, I haven't seen him since I got back. Kind of a blessing, actually. Man redefines the meaning of the word 'clingy.' I'm hoping he's moved on with his misplaced affections."

"I wouldn't count on it, big bro." Lyle stuffed a huge concretion of chip and cheese into his mouth and crunched reflectively for a few moments. "Ain't that his bike right there?"

Lassiter looked. "First of all, Lyle, the word is 'isn't,' and secondly…dammit, yes that is his bike. But I don't see _him."_

"Dude, I think he's _stalking_ you," Lyle laughed.

"That's not remotely funny, Lyle," Lassiter said. His eyes scanned the crowded boardwalk and the other patrons of the little Mexican restaurant. Finally he spotted a familiarly over-gelled head hiding behind a potted fichus. "Spencer, would you care to join us?" he called out in resignation.

Shawn popped up like a jack-in-the-box. "Lassie! Lyle! Fancy meeting you here!"

"So this is purely an accidental meeting, then, Spencer?" Lassiter asked as the man approached their outdoor table. "You weren't following us?"

"Well…I might have seen your car in the lot and pulled in to have a chat, but when I saw you were here with Lyle I decided to lay low. Don't want to interrupt any brotherly bonding."

"And of course you weren't eavesdropping or anything."

"Lassie, please, what do you take me for?" Shawn said with some asperity.

"The biggest busybody I know."

Shawn cocked his head and considered that. "Okay, fair enough. But I wasn't eavesdropping just this once."

He stood there with puppy-dog eyes until Lassiter invited him to sit. "Thanks," he said. "Er…how was your vacation?"

"Revealing."

Shawn nodded as though he understood. "Good. Good. Uh, did you take lots of pictures?"

Lassiter shook his head. "Not really a camera person, Spencer, despite the fact that half of my family is deeply involved in some form of photography."

"Oh. Okay. You, uh…you let your beard grow, didn't you?"

Lassiter rubbed his chin. "Yeah, I didn't shave until the last leg back from the Grand Canyon. I figured a middle aged man on a motorcycle who _doesn't_ look like a salt and pepper Wookie is a little too conspicuous. The tan line's still noticeable, eh? I tried to even it out."

"It's not bad. I wish you'd taken a picture, though."

Lyle was grinning like a maniac. Shawn looked at him curiously, then back to Lassiter. "I'm intruding," he said. "You guys haven't seen each other in years. I'm…just gonna go. Lassie, we'll talk later, okay? Call me."

He got up and disappeared, and in a moment his motorcycle roared to life and pulled out of the parking lot. Lassiter looked back at his brother, who was grinning if anything even wider than before.

"What?" he said crossly.

"You chickened out," Lyle sing-songed.

"I did not chicken out. I'm not going to talk to Spencer about…us…in front of you and all these people. I'll tell him in private. He's likely to make a scene otherwise, man lives for drama."

"You chickened out. You _always_ chicken out when it comes to relationships, Carly. I'd bet dollars to donuts that your whole marriage to that Veronica woman was the direct result of you being too damn scared to tell her no."

"_Victoria_, and what would you know about it? You weren't even in the country when I met her."

"I know _you, _big brother. Oh, you've always been Clint Eastwood on the field or the force, but put you in a dating situation and you turn into Don Knotts."

"Gee, thanks. I suppose I'll have to have Chief Vick hold on to my ammunition for me from now on."

Lyle shrugged. "Given what I've learned of your incidence record over the past few years, might not be a bad idea - I'm kidding, I'm kidding."

"When are you leaving, again?" Lassiter asked.

"Ouch. Damn, and here I was starting to think you wanted me to stick around."

Lassiter shrugged. "I do."

Lyle's eyes widened. "Wow, wasn't expecting you to say that."

"How are you set for money?"

"Not bad. I've been giving surf lessons."

"People actually pay you to teach them how to stand on a piece of Styrofoam in the middle of the ocean."

Lyle grinned again. "Quite well, actually. I know, shocking isn't it?"

Lassiter shrugged again. "To each his own."

"_Not _the words I recall you saying when I first expressed my desire to be a professional surfer."

"You didn't have a dad to tell you that you were wasting your life, so I felt I had to do it. Seems to have worked out for you regardless."

It was Lyle's turn to shrug. "It has, at times, been difficult enough to give me a certain appreciation for what you tried to do for me, if not exactly how you went about it. I just kind of wish you'd spent a little less time back then being my _dad_ and a little more time being my _brother."_

"I thought it was my duty."

"Probably why I've spent my entire life avoiding any semblance of duty. You were the only teenager I ever knew who had crow's feet and frown lines."

"There, see? My sterling example pushed you to succeed at doing absolutely nothing with your life and making a profit out of it."

Lyle laughed. "Yeah, I guess so." He sat forward. "Do you really want me to stick around Santa Barbara?"

"It would be kind of nice," Lassiter said, "but I don't expect it, nor would I ask it of you. All I ask is that no matter where you go from here, you don't just disappear again, okay? Eleven years is a hell of a long time to wonder whether my little brother is alive or dead."

"I think I could manage the occasional phone call."

"Fantastic."

Lyle smiled. "Can I see the scars?"

"What?"

"The scars, bro - I talked to Peter and he said they were pretty gnarly."

Lassiter shook his head. "I'm not opening my shirt in the middle of a crowded boardwalk restaurant so you can see my surgical scars, Lyle."

Lyle laughed. "Always so uptight. Come on, Carl - I'll show you mine if you'll show me yours." He pulled up the hem of his polo shirt to reveal a ragged semi-circle of knobbly scars on his stomach. "Great White, off the coast of South Africa."

Lassiter winced. "You're not making me feel any better about letting you run off to be a pro surfer, Lyle. And pull your freakin' shirt down, dickweed."

Lyle laughed again, but he pulled his shirt down. "Sharks, bullets - it all works out the same in the end. I might die in the shameless pursuit of self-gratification while you would be much more likely to meet your end making the world a better place for all the people you despise, but dead is dead, ain't it? In the end you either let the what-ifs push you down some other road or you kick them the hell to the curb and get on with your life. Lots of people get pushed, but you and me, bro, we're the type who push back. Which is why both of us continue to do exactly what we love to do despite the fact that we've both been bitten and we're both old enough by now to know better."


	22. Chapter TwentyOne: Matchbox 20

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Psych or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other Psych-Os like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **M+

**Spoilers: **Through season six episode nine, "Neil Simon's Lover's Retreat"

**WARNING: **Shassie, meaning full-on homosexual Shawn/Lassiter angst and occasional explicitness.

**A/N: ** This thing just keeps spooling out longer and weirder than ever. I promise, I will write a Shassie that is actually a Shassie and not an uber-conflicted piece of crap. I think I owe the fandom that much at this point, even if I'm too skeptical about the conflict of personality to think it would ever actually work out.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Twenty-One: Yourself or Someone Like You<strong>

"How did the Pederman case go for you?" Lassiter asked over coffee in the bullpen during a quiet moment that afternoon. "I could look it up in reports but I'd rather hear it from you."

Juliet sighed. "I don't think there's ever a 'win' in a case like that, but at least we nailed the asshole. Of course, he's pleading insanity so he could get a sympathetic jury."

"Bank loan officer?"

"Yeah. His neighbors all reported strange violent outbursts and I found a guy who was able to tell me where he ditched the Glock 22. Feds managed to finagle a confession out of him before handing him over to us."

"Did he say _why_ he did it?"

She shrugged. "He's claiming now that he believed the Pedermans were possessed by warlocks, but that's just to bolster his defense. I honestly don't think he had any real motive, he was just a sick SOB on the edge and they were unlucky enough to be the ones he ended up snapping on."

"Do you think he _is _insane?"

"I think he's sick and in serious need of mental help, but not legally insane, no. He dumped the gun and turned himself in - for bank fraud, not murder, of course, but it still shows that he knew he'd done wrong. And now he's trying to make himself look sicker than he is. Maybe he belongs in a mental institution, but he's not _legally_ insane."

"Does it bother you that he might get off 'easy?'" he asked.

She sighed. "I don't know. A little, maybe. But I tell myself that life in a mental institution isn't any easier than life in prison."

"That's all you can do."

"I guess. How was lunch with your brother?"

"Nice. He seems to have grown up a lot more than I ever thought he would have. Although he's still a childish asshat. But he's my brother so I'm kind of obligated to love him regardless."

"He reminds me a lot of Shawn."

"I know. Kind of scary, actually - I mean, its _my face _on Spencer's basic personality."

"Have you told Shawn…what you told me?"

"Not yet. He showed up at the restaurant but…well, Lyle might have had a point when he accused me of chickening out. Other than the one on his head, that is."

Her face was a study in hesitance and worry. "Are you sure you…_want_…to tell Shawn what you told me?"

"Of course I do. I just don't want to deal with the aftermath. I tried telling him something similar before and he didn't exactly take it as final."

"And you didn't…_make_ him take it as final."

"It's hard to make Spencer do anything. What are you trying to say, O'Hara?"

"Shawn can be very sweet, you know."

He sat down behind his desk with a deep sigh. "Yes, he can. He can also be the most infuriatingly self-centered person I know. What's your point?"

"Just…choosing to stay alone…seems like a drastic step. Are you sure that it's a good idea? You seemed so much happier when you were…in a relationship," Juliet said, at the last second choosing not to mention Marlowe Viccellio by name.

He cocked a sardonic eyebrow. "So what, now you _want_ me to date Spencer?"

"I want you to be _happy_, Carlton. I just don't know that you're making the right decision, cutting yourself off cold. And he…he really cares about you. And you said you wanted to learn to like yourself…do you really _not_ like yourself _that much? _I really don't understand why you would. You're a good man, Carlton, and you have every right to a loving relationship."

He gaped at her. "O'Hara," he said at last, "you're off your nut. The only thing I'd ever get from _Spencer _is a massive headache."

She shook her head firmly. "I don't think that's true, Carlton. Shawn is trying to grow up, and you…well, you are trying to grow…_out_. I've…been thinking a lot about this lately, and I think you could really help each other that way. I think you should give him a fair chance. He sprung the idea of a relationship on you at a bad moment and in a big way - take a couple of steps back and start over slowly. Maybe you don't have a future together, but I don't think you'd ever regret taking the chance. _I_ don't."

He just stared at her for a long time, then he shook his head. "Sometimes I think I should find a pack of wild wolves and live with them, because I sure as _hell_ will never figure human beings out."

"You and Shawn have a lot more in common than either of you think," Juliet insisted. "Just…give it a shot. If it doesn't work it doesn't work, and you can try your happy solitude experiment. I just…Carlton, you've been solitary almost all the time I've known you, and it's never made you happy before. I don't think now would really be any different."

He turned toward his desk and the pile of paperwork awaiting him. "Crap on a cracker, woman, now _you're_ giving me the headache." But even as he dived into the painstaking minutia of expense reports and forensic results, he thought about what she'd said. Damn it to hell and back, he was going to start _thinking_ again, and that…was bad.


	23. Chapter TwentyTwo: Thinking Problem

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Psych or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other Psych-Os like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **M+

**Spoilers: **Through season six episode nine, "Neil Simon's Lover's Retreat"

**WARNING: **Shassie, meaning full-on homosexual Shawn/Lassiter angst and occasional explicitness.

**A/N:** Yeah, I know, waaaaaaay too short and cliffhanger-y given how long it took to write. Let's just say that figuring out what Lassiter would figure out gave me my own thinking problem. More soon.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Twenty-Two: Thinking Problem<strong>

Lassiter went home that evening in a blue funk. Damn O'Hara for bringing back all the old doubts, all the insecurities he'd thought he'd gotten a handle on in his long time away. The fact was that he _didn't_ do well on his own, he never had, but did that mean he had to submit to what struck him as a damnably unhealthy relationship with a man who he barely even liked, regardless of how attracted he found himself?

No. No, it did _not._ Still, in some ways, she'd had a point and he just couldn't keep himself from thinking.

The trouble was mostly the fact that Shawn Spencer could, at times, be a genuinely good guy - or seemingly genuine, at least. Yes, Shawn had lost few opportunities in the six years he'd known him to rag him and step on his professional toes, but he'd also helped out a lot on numerous personal occasions, some of them pretty major, and even though he didn't exactly like the man he still considered him a good friend even if he didn't want to admit it to anyone. If Spencer really _did_ grow up and start thinking outside of himself, he would actually have a lot going for him…for someone. Maybe not for Lassiter.

Perhaps it was a good thing, taking this extra bit of time to think it over. It was ultimately reinforcing his decision to remain unattached.

The hard part was still going to be telling Spencer. He couldn't keep putting it off, but a search of his feelings showed that he was actually rather _afraid_ to make that confrontation. It seemed unaccountable to him at first - he certainly had no _physical_ fear of Shawn Spencer. Was it that he was afraid Spencer would manage to make him change his mind again? He'd certainly done a damn good job of overriding Lassiter's natural objections previously.

But Lassiter knew he hadn't been in his right frame of mind at the time. He hadn't wanted to admit it even to himself, but the shooting had left him scarred more than physically - and Marlowe's desertion hadn't helped in the least. He'd been…_vulnerable. _Spencer might not have realized it, but Lassiter knew it now. He would not be so easily overborne.

It was time to stop stalling. He picked up the phone and dialed Spencer's cell.

"Lassie?"

"Shawn, we need to talk. Can you meet me at the Psych office in half an hour?"

"…Sure, Lassie. I'll be there."


	24. Chapter TwentyThree: EndingsBeginnings

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Psych or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other Psych-Os like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **M+

**Spoilers: **Through season six episode nine, "Neil Simon's Lover's Retreat"

**WARNING: **Shassie, meaning full-on homosexual Shawn/Lassiter angst and occasional explicitness.

**A/N:** Rankly unsatisfying, but not quite the end.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Twenty-Three: Endings are New Beginnings<strong>

Shawn was standing outside the Psych office when Lassiter pulled up in his Sting Ray, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jeans and his shoulders hunched inside his old pea coat.

"You're breaking it off with me," he said even before Lassiter had the door open. His brown eyes were haunted and his voice was flat.

"I am," Lassiter said.

"Are you going to date Jules?" he asked. "'Cause that would be okay. With me, anyway, maybe not the Chief. You two would be good for each other. You and Jules, that is, not you and the Chief."

Lassiter shook his head. "I'm not going to date anybody. Not right now, at any rate."

"What? Why not?"

"I've got some things I need to work out before I'll be ready to be in a relationship," Lassiter said. "I'm afraid I may have inadvertently given O'Hara cause to think that I hate myself, but that's not exactly true. There are just some things about me that need to change, is all."

"Is there…any chance that I might _have_ a chance once you've worked out what you need to work out?" Shawn asked hopefully.

Lassiter shook his head. "No, Shawn, I really don't think so. You're a good guy, but insomuch as I _have_ a type, you're not it."

Shawn nodded. "Okay, that's fair, I guess." He scuffed the asphalt with the toe of his sneaker. "So, uh…how's the new condo?"

"A little freaky," Lassiter admitted, though it made him uncomfortable to do so. "I think someone's fucking with me, to be honest. One of the neighbors, most likely. A new personal record for how quickly I manage to alienate everyone I meet."

"If you need any help getting them to back off, just let me know."

"Thanks."

"What's your plan?" Shawn asked suddenly.

"Pardon?"

"For, er…fixing yourself."

"Oh." Lassiter shrugged. "Get a hobby that doesn't relate to guns or law enforcement, take the occasional vacation, learn to be something other than a 24/7 cop."

"Ah. Yeah, that couldn't hurt."

"You're…going to be okay." It wasn't a question but still something of an inquiry.

"Yeah, I am," Shawn said. "And so are you. You're an awesome fella, Lass - don't ever think you're not. Whoever ultimately ends up with you is going to be one lucky…person."

"Well…thank you, Spencer. And likewise."

"If I ever manage to fix myself."

Lassiter shrugged. _"Everybody's _broken, Spencer."

"Except for Gus."

"Gus, too. Although of the three of us, I suspect he's got the most minor issues."

"Are you going to let Psych work on cases with you?" Shawn asked. "Chief Vick said that if you didn't want to she'd cut us off. Well, she said she'd stick us with other detectives, but since the good cases go to you, that's pretty much the same thing."

"Provided you keep that promise you made to cut back on the recklessness, I don't see any particular reason to cut you off."

"Oh. Cool. And I will, Lassie - I'm going to play it straight from now on, honest. At least, as straight as I can. And since you know I'm not actually…you know…psychic…I guess there's no reason for me to go leaping into things like I always did. The 'big reveal' can probably be considered a thing of the past."

"Are you going to be okay with that?" Lassiter asked seriously.

"Oh, yeah. I'll find other ways to sate my need for constant attention."

"The possibilities are terrifying."

"Sorry. I promise I'll tone it down around you. And keep things relatively legal, too."

Lassiter cleared his throat. "I would appreciate that."

"Can we…er…hang out sometime?" Shawn asked. "Just as, you know - friends. Non-professionally. Maybe I can help you find that hobby."

"I…suppose so. Yeah. _As friends."_

Shawn reached out and clapped Lassiter on the arm. "Take care of yourself, buddy. And if I don't hear from you by Saturday you'll find me and Gus camped out on your doorstep ready to ambush you and drag you to a bar with us."


	25. Epilude: Buzzwords

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Psych or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other Psych-Os like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **M+

**Spoilers: **Through season six episode nine, "Neil Simon's Lover's Retreat"

**WARNING: **Shassie, meaning full-on homosexual Shawn/Lassiter angst and occasional explicitness.

**A/N: **Thanks for sticking with me all this way, and sorry there's so little payoff. But stories never really end - characters come and go, plotlines start and stop and occasionally restart again. That's the beauty of life. Just because this part of the story didn't go the way we thought it would or should, doesn't mean that the story is over. It's just not being written any longer.

* * *

><p><strong>Epilude: Buzzwords<strong>

He couldn't believe he was going through with it. Obviously he'd lost his mind, there was no better explanation for why he was now approaching the invisible office walls around Detective Lassiter's desk with a sheaf of computer-printed papers in his hand. Henry Spencer's desk was sitting kitty-wampus half in the bullpen aisle, which seemed to indicate that the head detective was slightly peeved. Henry was probably trying to gain more office space by minutely shoving Lassiter's desk closer to the conference room wall day by day again.

The Head Detective's face was a thundercloud - nothing unusual, but still terrifying. Buzz almost chickened out, but his traitor-feet carried him straight ahead. "D-d-detective Lassiter, Sir?" he stammered.

"_What do you - " _Lassiter started to bark, then closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and said in a calmer voice, "Yes, McNab?"

Buzz began to babble about how he'd felt when Lassiter got shot, and how afraid he was, after Lassiter disappeared on his long vacation, that he would never come back. Lassiter finally stopped the nearly nonsensical barrage of words with a hand.

"What do you want, McNab?" he said in a deliberately even tone.

"I just wanted to give you this, Sir," Buzz said, and handed over the sheaf of papers. "It's nothing important - you don't even have to read it." His face bleached white. "In fact, it's probably best if you don't, really. It's just…something I wrote. I'm, uh, I'm gonna go now. Good to have you back, Sir."

Buzz bolted for the restrooms with one hand clapped over his mouth like he was on the verge of throwing up. Lassiter watched him run with one eyebrow cocked quizzically, then he looked at the papers in his hand. Typed across the letterhead were the bold-italic-underlined words, "World's Greatest Cop."

There were only four pages of double-spaced type, so even though he was a slow reader it didn't take long to get through it. It was a brief vignette about a police detective who returned to active duty after a life-altering event to discover that he meant a lot more to his colleagues and friends than he'd realized. Lassiter did not know what the phrase "a cocklebur concealing a caramel center" actually meant, but it was fairly obvious who the main character was patterned after. At the end of the story the detective's partner walked up and presented him with a coffee mug bearing the legend, "World's Greatest Cop."

O'Hara cleared her throat. He looked up from the story to see her standing at his elbow with her hands behind her back. "Buzz and I kind of went sharesies on this scheme," she confessed. "I honestly thought he was going to leave me hanging but I'm glad to see he sucked it up."

She put the "World's Greatest Cop" coffee mug on the blotter of his desk, smiled, and flounced away.

**FIN**


End file.
